Yes, Professor (Complete)
by Freya Ishtar
Summary: In Voldemort's re-purposed Hogwarts, with Death Eaters serving as teachers, Hermione finds herself numb, inside & out; even a summer renovating & reorganizing the library can't dampen her emptiness. Her ability to feel died with Harry. When the new school year begins, she finds some of the professors claiming her attention in ways she never expected. *Poly-fic*
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes :**

 **1)** May contain themes such as, but not limited to, smut, violence, possessive behavior, self-harm, and sado-masochism. This story is intended as dark, smutty, and humorous (sometimes in a twisted, dark-humor sort of way, sometimes just straight-up funny).

 **2)** Those re-reading this since the previous update may notice a change in the way Thorfinn addresses Hermione (switching it from 'Princess' to 'Sunshine'). I'd initially borrowed elements Canimal had created for his character (with her knowledge and permission), but she has been hurt several times by fellow writers who borrowed without asking or giving credit, and so she has stopped granting permission. I realized part of the issue might be the more places other writers see these elements, the less likely they are to think they're not just common fanon. While she allowed me to continue borrowing those elements, myself, I felt it was a greater sign of respect for her efforts were I to go through any WiPs where these elements appear, and weed them out in place of my own take on the characters and their dynamics.

* * *

 ***** _ **Orias**_ **Mulciber** is my take on the canon character of Mulciber.

 **FANCAST : **Brock O'Hurn as Orias Mulciber, Chris Hemsworth as Thorfinn Rowle, Michiel Huisman as Antonin Dolohov (Henry Cavill will come into play later in the story to take over the role of Voldemort/Tom Riddle, Jr. from Ralph Fiennes—trust me, you'll know when it happens).

* * *

 **THANK YOU to the members of The Death Eater Express who planted and nurtured this particular warped little plunnie; you know who you are.**

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 **Disclaimer : I do not own **_**Harry Potter**_ **or any affiliated characters & make no profit from this story.**

* * *

 **Chapter One**

Hermione Granger's death was slow.

It had started the day Ron died, in his botched attempt to flee the Ministry with her and Harry. This gradual decline had, of course, led to things that probably shouldn't have happened. Like at some point during their Horcrux Hunt, she and Harry kept finding their way into one another's beds.

What had started with holding each other as they cried for their dead friend became something they knew was probably best kept to themselves. They would decide how to publicly handle that aspect of their relationship when the War was over, they'd said.

The day of the Battle of Hogwarts arrived, and they fought their hardest. For a few, glimmering moments, when she believed that after all they'd been through they might _actually_ win, she felt the beat of her heart—stronger than she'd ever been aware of before in her entire life.

But then . . . . Harry fell. And that pounding in her chest seemed to die right there, with him.

And yet, somehow, she continued to breathe.

Her wand hand fell to her side as she stared at the body of her best friend—her _soul mate_. She could hear the fighting around her, still, but beyond the sight of him at Voldemort's feet, and the sounds of battle, there was nothing. Not the gust of the wind against her skin, not the beat of her pulse through her veins, nor the brush of her wild hair against her cheeks as it fell from its tangled braid.

Not even the fear as the tide of the War turned in that moment, as those on her side—losing their conviction with their champion fallen—surrendered or were killed. She could not even muster any disgust as Voldemort stepped around Harry and made a bee-line for her, catching her chin in his bony and unforgiving fingers.

"Kill me," she said, her voice hollow and her gaze empty as she stared up at him.

The serpentine wizard seemed genuinely intrigued by the witch's lack of emotion. He'd heard many, _many_ things about this one—Harry Potter's precious Mudblood companion, Hermione Granger. He knew perfectly well how large a role this girl had played in nearly ending him, in hindering his plans over these last seven years.

He'd wanted to make her suffer. But there would be no joy for him in the torment of one who no longer had the capacity to experience suffering.

"I think not."

There was the tiniest flicker in the depths of her chestnut eyes at his refusal. Good. She was still in there, _somewhere_. He just needed to wait her out—and his patience _was_ legendary. He'd intended to put her to use, anyway.

She could work toward his cause while he waited for her to come back to life.

That had been four months ago.

Now, Hermione stood in the center of the library, surveying her work. She'd spent those months since the War trapped in Hogwarts, her wand taken from her, and tasked with restocking and arranging the reconstructed shelves and sections by-hand, and according to Voldemort's precise order and design.

The students would arrive this evening for the start of the new school year. She knew there was something deeply wrong with expecting anyone to _willingly_ send their child to a school run by _Lord_ Voldemort and his inner circle, but then he'd made no secret that the penalty for any witch or wizard who refused their child's invitation to return to Hogwarts would be a lengthy sentence in Azkaban.

As such, they expected the school filled to capacity tonight.

At first, the logical part of her brain—all that remained the majority of the time in the wake of Harry's death—considered it strange that Voldemort was so very vocal around her about his plans, and his _reasoning_.

As she was technically part of the staff, she was forced to dine with the Dark Lord and his followers. She never lifted her gaze from her plate, never acknowledged the Death Eaters seated around her, nor Voldemort at the head of the long table.

But she did _listen_.

She heard when he declared that the only Mudblood in all of Wizarding Britain not in Azkaban was the very special one under his _employ._ She heard when he'd sentenced the entire Weasley clan to the Kiss in retaliation for Molly's killing of Bellatrix Lestrange.

He'd even decided to switch the quarters of the Gryffindor and Slytherin Houses, expecting that would be a _delightful_ little shock for the students—the proud Gryffindors, finding themselves confined to the dungeons, while Slytherin was set in a lofty tower. This change would not affect her; she had been charged with taking over _everything_ that had once been Madame Pince's, which included the private staff quarters adjacent to the library.

At first, she did wonder why, but quickly enough, she understood that he spoke so openly in front of her because he hoped that something he said might get a reaction from her. That his words and deeds would spark a response he might be able to use against her.

Hermione would simply continue to eat and drink in silence, her empty gaze on her plate until the last bite was gone.

She'd had nothing but the clothes on her back when she was first dragged to the broken-down library. Voldemort tasked Alecto Carrow with stripping the younger witch of anything reminiscent of her Muggle life, leaving her only the barest essentials. As unfriendly about her chore as she was, Alecto had taken _some_ pity on the other witch, seeing to the matter behind the closed doors of the librarian's quarters, and allowing Hermione to borrow the robes left behind in the wardrobe when Madam Pince had been carted off to Azkaban with the rest of the staff and faculty.

As the only female Death Eater now that Bellatrix was gone—leaving her, Narcissa Malfoy, and Hermione as the only women in the castle those long four months— Hermione imagined the slightly mad-eyed witch felt at least a little bit of kinship. Of course, they never said a word to one another, but that was certainly better than nasty comments or awkward conversation others might use to fill the void of silence in the room.

Narcissa wasn't exactly good company, herself, as her willful deceit of Voldemort during the Battle of Hogwarts had nearly lost him the War. She was charged with serving as the school medi-witch. Hermione'd been unaware, but apparently the woman had excelled in healing magic during her time as a student, which was why Voldemort had sent her to check on Harry in the first place. But, when Narcissa was not uttering a spell for the sake of healing or tending the sick, the silencing charm the Dark Lord had placed upon her would take effect, rendering her speechless.

Occasionally, jokes were tossed about during mealtimes, inquiring if a similar charm had been placed on _the Mudblood_ —which was all any of them called Hermione. She wasn't bothered, but she was aware of Narcissa, from the corner of her eye, lowering her already bowed head a little further, still.

The strangest thing was the presence in the library of Draco Malfoy. They, also, never spoke. Every few days or so, he would simply come in, help her with the shelving for a little while, and then leave as quietly as he'd entered.

She would never mention it, but she recalled glimpses of a changed young man during the War. There was the fleeting thought through her head, every now and again, that this was his way of trying to make amends with her in the only way that would not raise the suspicion, or ire, of Voldemort.

With a sigh, Hermione glanced toward the windows. The sky was darkening; the students would be there shortly.

As she rounded the front desk to check one final time that she had everything in order to help any students who would begin their studies tomorrow and need her assistance, Amycus Carrow and Theodore Nott, Sr. strolled in. She didn't even glance up at them—she didn't need to in order to know who it was.

Every day they came in and tried to ruffle her feathers. Every day they walked away disappointed, but still they continued to try.

Of course, their Dark Lord's decree that she was not to be harmed left them _only_ words. And words had stopped bothering Hermione even before she'd lost Harry.

* * *

"Mulciber."

Orias lifted his head at his Lord's call. "My Lord?"

"The students will arrive momentarily. Fetch the Mudblood from her post and bring her to the Great Hall."

Though the Death Eater successfully refrained from rolling his eyes at the command, he _hated_ it. "Of course, My Lord." He offered the Dark Lord a deep bow and started out of the headmaster's office.

When he reached the staircase and began down, well out of the range of Voldemort's hearing, Orias let his head fall back and uttered a pained groan. If there was anything Orias Mulciber disliked, it was boredom, and any time spent in that little witch's presence was the very definition of boring.

If she did more than acknowledge people with bland, conversational statements, or looked upon anything in the world with some flicker of interest in her dull, chestnut eyes, that would be something. But the task was like escorting a living doll about the castle grounds. And of course, he was one of the three assigned to seeing her to one location or another.

Apparently, she had a reputation—once upon a time—for being feisty. Should that reputation rear its head, the Dark Lord wanted the one accompanying her to be someone he could trust to restrain her without causing undue physical damage, as he didn't want magic used on her, either, for some reason or another.

Somehow, he, Rowle, and Dolohov, as the most physically imposing in the Death Eater ranks, were expected by their Lord to be the most aware of their own strength, and thus, the most likely capable of applying only as much strength as _absolutely_ necessary to any given task. He wasn't certain there was logic in that, but then he wasn't about to question Lord Voldemort. Not to his face, anyway.

In private, however, there were quite a few discussions during which his sanity was questioned. They all wondered if achieving the power he'd literally come back from the dead to claim hadn't lost him his sanity as a trade-off.

As he neared the library's door, Orias drew in a sigh, trying to brace himself for the draining effects of being around the Mudblood. But then he heard voices from inside.

"Ever shagged a Mudblood?" Amycus . . . of course. So the other voice had to be—

"Can't say that I have. Wondered if it's any different from shagging a pure-blood, to be honest." Nott.

Dear Merlin, how many times did he have to shoo them away. What the bloody hell was their fascination with trying to get a rise out of her?

"Then I suppose it's just too bad for either of you that pure-bloods have a reputation for being lousy shags."

Orias' brows shot up. That . . . that had certainly been the Mudblood's voice.

"What did you say?" Amycus sputtered out the question in surprise.

"I'm sorry, did I stutter?" She sounded exactly as dull and lifeless as always, but her words . . . . "A Muggle-born witch wouldn't shag _either_ of you with another woman's bits. And, honestly, illiterate Muggles could come up with better shite than you two manage on your _best_ day."

"Why you little—!"

Orias threw open the doors then, just in time to see Theodore Nott, Sr. in mid-reach for his wand. "Enough," he said, his voice booming through the naturally quiet space of the library.

"Mulciber, this little bitch—"

"Sorry, Nott, do you want to tell the Dark Lord you were about to hex the Mudblood, or shall I?"

From the corner of his eye, he could see that the little witch hadn't looked up from whatever duties she was seeing to behind the front desk's partition. There was no color in her cheeks, or lift of her brow . . . nothing to indicate she'd just given Nott a minor tongue lashing.

She hadn't even started when he'd stomped in and shouted.

Nott turned an irritated expression on the mountain of a wizard who filled the space of one of the library's double doors, all on his own. Though Nott wasn't stupid enough to mouth off to Mulciber, he wasn't about to be cowed, either.

"I won't stand for being insulted, Mulciber."

Orias stepped aside and held the door open. "Then you'd best leave, because she might not be finished, and it's _our_ necks if anyone harms her, remember?"

Dropping his arm to his side, Nott gave a nod. "Very well." He looked to Hermione, leaning against the front desk as he said in a hissing whisper, "The _second_ the Dark Lord gets whatever it is he wants from you, you're _mine_!"

She went about whatever cataloguing she was doing as she said, "Then I do hope on that day you'll bring an instruction manual so you'll know what to do."

"You filthy little—"

"And that's enough of that," Orias said, grabbing the fuming man by the back of his robes and shoving him out into the corridor. Amycus followed without prompting, though he did turn back to gape at the still-docile-seeming witch.

With a sigh and a shake of his head, Orias let the door close in Nott's miserable face.

The girl behind the desk set down her quill and let the scroll she'd been working on roll closed as she lifted her dulled gaze to his. "Would've preferred you showing up a minute sooner."

"And miss the most interesting thing you've done in four months?"

She didn't smile or anything, merely coming around the front desk to stand before him. "Shall we, warden?"

His blue eyes narrowing, he considered her for a moment. "Why did you wait all this time to put him in his place?"

"They've been at this for months, even though I said nothing. I cannot have them behaving this way in front of the students who will need to use this room. I thought perhaps if I changed tactics and said something, they'd get the hint that simply because I am unaffected by their idiotic words does not mean I am someone to be trifled with."

She moved past him toward the door as he thought about that—she could care less about anything else, but she minded their behavior in front of the students?

"So, am I expected to refer to you as Professor, now, since students start—?"

"Hang on." He slipped a hand around her forearm and pulled her to a halt.

She gasped, a shiver running through her at the pressure against her skin. Her breath came up short as she found herself staring up at the Viking of a wizard. . . . . _Oh, he . . . he rather_ does _look like a Viking, doesn't he?_ It was the first true notice she'd taken of _anyone_ since the moment she'd felt her heart stop.

With that sharp intake of breath, Orias noticed the instant flood of color in her cheeks and the rush of life in her eyes. Well, now, she was _very_ interesting, looking up at him like this.

All because he'd grabbed her arm?

The little witch bit her lip, appearing to notice her slip-up. She tried to pull out of his hold, but that only increased the pressure on her skin, forcing her to shiver, once more.

Despite her sudden protests and her attempt to dig her heels in, Orias dragged her closer. He pulled back the sleeve of her robes, revealing a number of small, precise incisions along her forearm in various stages of healing.

"Who did this to you?"

Even as she stared up at him, the vitality in her eyes began to empty, once more, and she offered him a lifeless shrug in answer.

At the return of her dullness, he huffed out an irritated sound and grabbed her arm, again.

Another gasp; another shudder and spark of life washing into her.

He hated to admit it, but the glimpses he was seeing of her just now . . . he could _certainly_ stand to see more. "Who did this to you?"

Hermione drew in a shaky breath, her eyes on his as she said in a trembling whisper. "I—I did."

That he was not expecting to hear. He thought one of his brothers-in-arms had perhaps taken their attempts to get a rise out of her a little too far. "Why?"

"Because . . . ."

When it seemed she would lapse into lifelessness again, he squeezed his fingers against her gashed skin.

She winced, but the noise that tore out of her throat, didn't quite seem like a sound of pain. "Because it's all I can feel."

Orias heard the words, and he supposed in her circumstances they made sense. Yet, the wash of color staining her cheeks and the way her suddenly-lively eyes kept tracing his features . . . .

"Somehow I doubt that."

She swallowed hard, pretending she didn't know what he was talking about. So what if she'd just memorized the shape of his lips beneath his beard, or measured the broadness of his shoulders in her peripheral vision?

"We have to go or your Lord will get suspicious of what's taking you so long to escort me."

He knew she was right. Relinquishing his hold, he grabbed the door and gestured for her to step out into the corridor. "This _isn't_ over, little witch," he said in a hushed whisper.

* * *

Hermione kept her gaze on her plate. The few times she'd glanced up, she'd noticed too many familiar faces in the sea of students—reeducation had, in some cases, meant the calling back of recently graduated witches and wizards to _correct_ their previous lessons.

Every time she'd caught the gaze of anyone she'd known, they gave her a pitying looks . . . but their expressions immediately turned wrathful as they then pinned Draco, seated beside her. She understood perfectly well why. She was a victim, but he was viewed as one of the perpetrators of this travesty they were all being forced to live through.

If she could bring herself to care, she might worry for his safety, should their former classmates ever manage to catch him alone.

At some point during Voldemort's lengthy and boring and _threatening_ speech to welcome the new and returning students, she accidentally glanced toward the far end of the table, where her three escorts sat. Orias was in deep, hushed conversation with Thorfinn Rowle and Antonin Dolohov.

They all looked up, catching her attention on them. Orias didn't appear surprised, but the other two were wide-eyed.

Much to her own shock, Hermione could feel that she wanted to respond in some way. Instead, she dropped her attention back to her plate.

But then, a spark of curiosity—something she'd not felt in months—got the better of her. She lifted her gaze to find the three still staring at her.

Before she realized what she was doing, she clamped her hand on her arm and squeezed. She bit her lip to hold in the responding gasp as the strange, flickering thrill from earlier coursed through her, once more.

At the sudden hints of life in her face, Thorfinn's jaw dropped open just a little, Antonin's brows drew upward, and Orias grinned.

By the time Voldemort had finished speaking, she'd stuck her arm beneath the table and drifted back into the dull and lifeless version of herself that she needed to be around the Dark Lord. She was seated right beside him, and she could not afford him to glimpse even a moment of vitality in her.

"Well," he said, nodding toward the students as he resumed his seat. "See some of your friends, do you?"

"I'm sure they're out there." Her tone was empty as she continued, "I haven't bothered to look."

If Voldemort was dissatisfied or impatient with her for her answer, he didn't show it, turning his attention to his own meal.

Hermione ate in silence, as per usual. Yet, unlike usual, she could feel the press of three gazes on her from the far side of the table.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Hermione found it odd, indeed, that she was disappointed when Thorfinn Rowle was the one tasked with escorting her back to the librarian's quarters that evening after dinner, rather than Orias Mulciber. Several of her friends among the student body had looked up at the end of the meal, trying to catch her gaze, to see if snagging a moment of her time was possible.

She knew, in a passing and exhausted whisper crowding the back of her thoughts, that they had spent the last four months worrying for her. They'd spent the last four months fearing what had become of her, stranded in the castle with Voldemort and his followers.

And, against her better judgment—she supposed because she wanted to protect them, still, she wanted them to see there was nothing left in her worth rescuing—she cast a glance across the Great Hall. She'd met each of their gazes, in turn, with the same expression she reserved for Voldemort. Dull, lifeless . . . devoid of anything but her ability to think and to breathe.

If they thought she was lost to them, they'd keep their distance, maybe. Really, the passive display was the only avenue left to her in means of protecting them.

The glossy-eyed expression she turned on them all had deflated Dean, Neville, and Seamus on sight. Luna, always so bright and ethereal, already appeared less so than Hermione's dulled memories showed . . . but even so, she dimmed a bit more as her once-dreamy blue eyes met Hermione's for that flickering second.

Pansy Parkinson, though they'd never remotely been what anyone would call friends, seemed quite confused by the Muggle-born witch's doll-like demeanor. Perhaps even a bit frightened. _Huh,_ Hermione'd thought, her inner voice monotone, _that was unexpected_.

As happened at the end of every meal, Voldemort looked toward Hermione's wardens, nodded to one, in particular, and then motioned to the witch seated beside him. Until tonight, the two _not_ chosen would show relief—chuckling at their cohort, with the noticeable easing of tense shoulders—and the one selected to escort her would appear exasperated.

Yet, tonight that did not happen. After the hushed discussion among the three, after her ridiculous, unwise decision to show some responsiveness to their curious gazes, Thorfinn's brows rose, a thoughtful expression skittering across his features. Antonin scowled, his dark eyes narrowed as though he suspected the younger wizard of having some hand in the Dark Lord's decision, and Orias . . . .

Orias was clearly displeased, but he only held her gaze for a steady moment before showing any reaction. He squared his jaw, arching a brow at her.

There had been the strangest drive, again, to respond. But no, not with Voldemort seated beside her. Still, as she stared back at Orias, she could not help forcing a gulp down her throat, and she was overcome by the most bizarre need to remind herself to breathe.

At her sudden intake of breath, he tilted his head to one side, ever so slightly, and crossed his arms over his chest. She could tell from the way he leaned back in his chair that he'd stretched out his long legs beneath the table.

As Thorfinn rose and moved behind the row of chairs to fetch her, the _other_ Viking of a wizard still seated continued to watch her. Only when Thorfinn pulled out her chair, jostling her a bit, was she pulled from whatever silent communication had been passing between her and Orias Mulciber.

And she couldn't rightly recall what it had been about, even a mere moment afterward.

Had Orias been her escort, she could've asked him, but then, _had_ he been her escort, chances were he'd not have bothered with strange and curious looks.

* * *

Hermione and Thorfinn walked along the corridors and up staircases in blessed silence, yet she did get the impression that his gaze was on her, every now and again. But then, he did that more than the other two. Orias and Antonin had always acted quite put-upon by their task. Thorfinn, however, simply kept pace with her, occasionally glancing in her direction.

She wondered if the difference was in that they'd almost, _sort-of,_ known each other as students when he'd been one of the visiting transfers from Durmstrang during the year of the Tri-wizard tournament.

When they reached the library, she expected him to walk away. Instead, as she opened the doors and walked inside, he stepped in behind her.

Her brow furrowed, so faint it was nearly imperceptible. "Rowle? What are you doing?"

He frowned, giving her a once-over before checking that the doors had closed behind them. "I've spent all summer trying to figure out what happened to you."

Hermione lifted a hand to cover a yawn, her dulled chestnut eyes holding his as she asked, "What a dreadfully mundane way to spend your time."

He squared his jaw, weighing what Mulciber had told him of his conversation with her—of his discovery of what the girl had been doing to herself behind closed doors. He weighed her reaction to their collective attention in the wake of said discovery, which he never would have believed, had he not seen with with his own eyes.

Weighed all that, and pitted it against the subdued nature she'd displayed since her precious Potter's fall.

"You died out there, didn't you?"

There was a flicker in the depths of her eyes, some fleeting response to his question, but she recovered fast, asking in a quiet and detached voice, "What?"

His brows drew upward and he shook his head, leaning one elbow against the front desk's partition to affect a lazy posture. "I remember you. Feisty thing you were, not exactly a ray of sunshine, but always ready for an argument, always ready to bare your teeth and fight. Now look at you, like some goddamned _doll_. I've been trying to understand that change."

She sighed, a bored sound as her shoulders slumped. "I never pegged you for a big thinker, Rowle."

"Yes, well, you'd not be the first to judge me on my appearance, _Sunshine_. Everyone looks at men like Mulciber and me and thinks we can't possibly have working brains, but I wager you'd be surprised just how many discussions we get into that the old you—you know, the feisty one who gave a shit about, well, _anything_ —would probably enjoy."

When she offered no response or change in demeanor, he went on.

"I didn't really get it, until Mulciber told me what you've been up to when no one is looking, and _why_. That's when I knew. That's what the Dark Lord's waiting for from you, isn't it? For you to come back to life?"

"Yes," she said with a nod, perfectly aware that, really, only she and Voldemort had been privy to that knowledge. Everyone else was so convinced he kept her as some sort of trophy. That she was broken, already.

But she wasn't his trophy, not yet. Not until he could break her in whatever fashion _he_ saw fit. A challenge her lifelessness clearly did _not_ play into.

Thorfinn nodded, thinking over the all the information he'd been handed tonight. "I see, well . . . that little stunt you pulled at dinner tonight?"

Her eyes narrowed by a fraction as she tried to understand what he meant. "Little stunt?"

He moved faster than she thought a man his size should be able to—he and Mulciber had that in common, apparently—and latched a hand around her forearm, precisely where Mulciber had told him. The tips of his fingers pressed tight against the skin beneath her sleeve.

Hermione shuddered at the flash of pain that coursed through her. Giving her head a shake, she lifted brightened eyes to his.

Thorfinn smirked, his gaze raking her features. Yes, now she looked _exactly_ like a matured version of the little spit-fire he remembered as a fourth year student in mid adolescent blossoming. "The little stunt where, for whatever _stupid_ reason, you felt the need to do this—" He paused, giving her arm another squeeze, which, to his shock, forced a quiet moan out of her. "To yourself when the Dark Lord might've seen you. _Never_ again, Sunshine."

She swallowed hard, shaking her head in disbelief. "Are you . . . actually _worried_ for me?"

Again, his attention roved over her as he tried to consider how to explain this notably strange occurrence. "As I said, I remember you. Even when you were a right pain in the arse, you were a _fighter_. Kind of always liked that about you. Be a shame to see that fire snuffed out for good."

As he spoke, Hermione realized the grave misstep she'd made by answering when Orias had asked why she harmed herself, by admitting to Thorfinn what Voldemort wanted with her. But, she scrambled at an odd notion, at something to do with the way these three—who now knew she'd been hiding in plain sight all this time—had looked at her tonight.

"You're not going to tell You Know Who my secret, _are_ you?"

Thorfinn shrugged, but hadn't relinquished his hold on her, just yet. "Don't see why we should. It's our job to play witch-sitter, not monitor your mental state. Besides, I'm too curious about all this to tattle on you for it."

The brightness in her gaze was dimming, her expression becoming bored and docile, once more. "Yes, because I'm so very intriguing."

Mulciber's observation echoed through his head at that—and the little sound she'd made that wasn't _quite_ one of discomfort. _I got the impression she_ likes _the pain. Definitely a theory that will need testing, when the opportunity arises._ If she'd been dead inside all this time, that made sense.

Pain was a release—a relief from the numbness. And a rough touch awakening that without actually harming her, well, there was probably a different sort of release in _that_ , altogether, that she could not have anticipated.

"Actually . . . ." Thorfinn pulled her close, his fingers squeezing against her broken skin beneath the fabric of her robes, once more. She gasped, her head tipping maintain eye-contact with him as life flooded back into her face.

He couldn't help but smile a little savagely at the way she bit her lip to hold in any further sounds. The flush in her cheeks and the way her breath quickened was answer, enough.

Leaning close, he brought his mouth to her ear. The way she shivered as he exhaled against her skin sent a warm, delicious spike through him, and he knew if he didn't stop this soon, he was going to be in _quite_ a bit of trouble with her other so-called witch-sitters.

"You _are_ so very intriguing, Sunshine," he said, his lips brushing her ear as he whispered the words.

He leaned back, catching her gaze as she breathed. God, it was torture to ignore the way her breasts pressed tight to his chest as she inhaled.

Thorfinn dropped his hand from her then and backpedaled a step. As he backed toward the doors, she watched him, her eyes still bright, cheeks still flushed. Her breath thundered out from between her lips, and he was cataloging every second of the sight before him.

When he finally disappeared out into the corridor, Hermione let herself collapse backward against the front desk. " _That_ was dangerous," she whispered, shaking her head at the empty library.

God, she knew perfectly well why she'd let that go on as long as it had. For the same reason she'd grabbed her own arm during dinner—the same reason she hadn't even tried to lie to Orias Mulciber earlier.

Because she'd _liked_ it, and in four long months of not liking anything—of not feeling _anything_ but the sweet sting of the blade cutting her skin—that had been more than she could say no to. _Definitely_ a dangerous thing, given her circumstances.

Collecting herself, she moved to lock the library doors and scurried off to her quarters while she waited for the life to wash back out of her, again.

* * *

In bed that night, she tossed and turned. Her thoughts, tangled and discordant, would not quiet. The conversations she'd had tonight, the looks and touches, rolled through her head, over and over. Such an odd and sharp contrast that commotion was against the bland voice in which these jumbled thoughts played through her mind.

At last, she couldn't help herself. She pressed against her wounds, biting her lip against the rush of sensation. But the pain hushed the restless flow of internal babble.

Yet, somehow, as the blissful stinging subsided, and she felt herself finally drifting to sleep, she could not shake the wonder of what being in the company of her wardens would be like after tonight's revelations.


	3. Chapter 3

**DEAR GUEST REVIEWER (ALL OTHER READERS, I APOLOGIZE THAT THIS IS LONG, BUT IT** _ **IS**_ **IMPORTANT) :**

I appreciate your concern & candor in regard to feeling I might be 'unintentionally romanticizing self-harm.' I'm not. I'm very familiar with self-harm & some of the reasons people resort to this form of emotional outlet, as in my teenage years, I was a cutter, myself, & spent some time studying psychology afterward (these things are unrelated to each other, but both have bearing on this). I appreciate your reasoning, but I do have valid motivations for Hermione's behavior. While not every person's reasons for cutting are the same, _I'm_ writing about it as a traumatized person's last resort to feel something, have some form of control in a life where they have _none_ , & protect herself, because reminding herself she _can_ still feel is her only tether to her sanity some days.

That's not romanticizing it; that's a very real bunch of reasons some people do this.

I am _very_ careful to label potentially problematic content in opening chapter Author's Notes,  & everywhere I post story & update announcements, so those sensitive to the subjects about which I write can avoid the story & not be unexpectedly confronted with an issue painful for them.

I assume you're also concerned whether or not Hermione enjoys the pain; about whether or not her infliction of self-harm has anything to do with masochistic tendencies, & inadvertently downplay the very real issues driving her to do this. No, it is for the reasons stated in the end of the 1st paragraph; if she finds she enjoys pain as a result of character interactions, it's a separate thing, not _actually_ triggered by her self-harm. The only way these two things are connected is by the opportunity one thing affords her to learn the other about herself.

When Hermione & Mulciber separately identify that she 'enjoys it', this referred to the exact incident of him unwittingly applying pressure to her wounds, _not_ her act of cutting, nor was it suggesting she is cutting _because_ she likes pain. They, again, are separate.

Some people enjoy pain & it must be clear there is nothing wrong with that, as long as they are responsible & _careful_ & so are their partners. To _not_ address these things in literature, or only handle them with kid gloves is not real  & doesn't help alleviate the stigma surrounding them.

If others romanticize self-harm, or mistakenly assume it's driven by masochistic tendencies after reading this, that's not something I want, but it is beyond my control. Furthermore, those who do, or have, practiced self-harm, for whatever their reasons, may take comfort in reading a character who mirrors this very real aspect of their life. They may relate to them in a world where they can't relate to other characters who have very different problems, or no 'real' problems, at all.

I appreciate your concerns & hope you understand I have a plan for this story. I assure you, I do not flippantly pick out habits/practices which may be indicative of some deeper problem for the sake of drama/shock value.

I would never dehumanize the sufferers of an issue like this in such a way.

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

Antonin Dolohov hid a frown as he watched the serpentine wizard slurping tea from a dainty little demitasse cup, as though the world's most powerful Dark wizard breaking for tea time was the most ordinary thing in the world. If that wasn't odd enough, the sound he made as he pulled the liquid in between his barely-existent lips was unappetizing enough to make his follower grateful most meal times were crowded by other sounds, just enough to bury the noise.

Unlike just now . . . when it seemed to travel through the empty and quiet space of the headmaster's office and echo off the walls, the portraits lining them silenced, so the past headmasters could never disturb Voldemort's plotting.

Typically, the Dark Lord had the Mudblood dragged in to join him for this time of day. Such an odd dynamic Voldemort had developed with the girl. She would sit and quietly drink her tea, perhaps picking a single biscuit from the silver tray set between them to nibble at the entire time.

He would ask her questions that could be best described as conversational and ordinary. How was her work going? Was there anything the library needed that would aid her to better assist the students in their reeducation? She had once answered that she, as the librarian, could do with robes there were not borrowed, and Voldemort had chuckled . . . laughing hard, as if she'd told the world's most humorous joke, but did not agree or disagree with this as a _requirement_.

Antonin looked at her strangely that day, for as he escorted her back to the library, she'd wondered aloud—in her typically lackluster tone—what the Dark Lord's reaction might've been, had she mentioned she was in dire need of undergarments. He'd not known if this was intended as a joke, or if she was really so broken that she didn't care who knew she was in the market for new knickers.

Yet, every day when Voldemort took tea, she was with him and he would speak to her on any variety of topics and how they might relate to the school and the _improvements_ he was making. Aside from the occasional, lifelessly-voiced quip, she would answer with a nod, a shake of her head, or a non-committal shrug. Antonin had begun to think that, for whatever twisted and indecipherable reason, the Dark Lord actually _enjoyed_ the girl's company.

Today, however, was different. Perhaps because today was the first day of school, and _perhaps_ Voldemort had considered that she was tending students in her role as librarian—though such considerations did not seem in keeping with his character. Whatever the case, the still of the office in her absence, even with the abysmal company she made in her state, magnified how unsettling watching someone who appeared so _very_ far human dining properly on tea and biscuits truly was.

Finally, he could not help himself—he'd arrived here, expecting he would be sent to fetch the Mudblood and bring her here, as the Dark Lord instructed every afternoon, yet, no such instruction had been given today. His lord had greeted him, and then proceeded to start on his tea slurping and biscuit nibbling, seemingly content to let the Death Eater stand there watching him.

Un-bloody-settling.

"My Lord?"

Voldemort arched a naked brow as he met his follower's gaze. "Dolohov?"

"I do not mean to be presumptuous, but is there some reason you did not ask me to fetch the girl for you today?"

A smile twisted across the Dark Lord's lips, before he touched a napkin to the corners of his mouth and set it down beside the tray. "In fact, there _is_ a reason. I am going to the library to see, firsthand, that she is fulfilling her duties as librarian in _my_ Hogwarts."

Antonin nodded, his brow furrowing. He supposed he understood, though he highly doubted the dead-eyed girl was singlehandedly plotting a rebellion via undermining the students' homework.

He even doubted Mulciber's tale regarding his private interaction with her before dinner last night, which was what angered him so about the Dark Lord's choice for her escort back to the library. He'd wanted to see for himself if she really _was_ still in there—the girl with so much fight in her that she'd survived a direct hit from his specially crafted curse, which had killed _all_ others who'd received the full blast of its power.

When they'd met on the battlefield again, there'd been unmistakable fear in those chestnut eyes. Not that he'd particularly relished her fear, necessarily, but she'd been a curiosity to him after that night in the Department of Mysteries. He'd wanted to get closer to her, to know what made her tick . . . what made her so special. That would not be a thing likely to happen with her dreading him.

And then, her eyes changed. They were now so empty that his curiosity had abated in a blink.

Until last night. Even Rowle's telling this morning over breakfast—in yet another hushed conversation—about confirming Mulciber's observations Antonin had not really believed. They'd both known of the intrigue he found in her continued existence before her not terribly exciting capture at the War's end. For all he knew—and for all he would not put past those two—this might be a joke. Or some attempt to get him in trouble with their lord for their own amusement.

"You will accompany me," Voldemort said as he rose and rounded his desk.

Hiding his confusion, Antonin asked, "My Lord?"

The inhuman shell of a wizard grinned. "If she is doing _anything_ of which I do not approve, she will need to be punished. In that event, I will require you to escort her accordingly."

Antonin nodded as he turned on his heel and followed the Dark Lord from the office—the entirety of the previous four months, Voldemort had not once mentioned punishment for the girl for any reason. Now, he spoke of the concept as though it were old and comforting news.

Despite the strangeness of this, all Antonin said in response was, "Of course, My Lord."

* * *

Hermione looked up at the series of dull thuds that resonated through the library. There were not as many students here as she'd expected for the first afternoon of Voldemort's new curriculum, but she heard some whispers through the corridors as she was escorted to lunch in the Great Hall by Thorfinn Rowle—who was careful to watch his hands, today, given the amount of prying eyes around, she guessed.

Her tuning in and out to hallway chatter as she passed had gleaned that a few students were determined to trip up the works by being less than cooperative in completing their assignments.

At the very least, she expected one or two of her old friends to drop in and try to get through to her. But then, she considered that perhaps the new regime running the school had implemented some strict policy about _only_ using the library for research purposes.

How funny that during her time as a student, such a ruling would've thrilled her, as it would've cut down on all the inane, whispered gossiping that typically accompanied students pouring over homework with their friends. Now, she could not appreciate it due to the circumstances which had brought said ruling to pass.

A couple of first years stood before a shelf that had apparently thought to teach them a lesson about idling before the bookcases by spitting its contents out onto the floor at their feet. Either that, or Peeves had finally reemerged.

The ghosts—possibly with the exception of The Bloody Baron—rarely made themselves known to the castle residents, anymore. The War's outcome, and the school's rerouted purpose, had disheartened them too greatly. Hermione was certain that, were she still in touch with her emotions on a regular basis, she would quite agree.

The pair of children standing before the scattered tomes met her gaze with apologetic looks.

"We're sorry, Miss Granger," one said, running a nervous hand through the shock of pale hair atop his head. His friend remained silent, looking on with impossibly wide eyes. Huh, perhaps they feared she would think they'd been making mischief and assumed she was under instruction to summon one of the _professors_ to deal with mischief makers.

Hardly as though she would obey such an instruction; her definition of _mischief_ would probably get a bit fuzzy were she ever told such. After all, mischief was a matter of perspective, and how was _she_ to know what would be considered mischievous in Voldemort's view?

With a small shake of her head, she rounded the front desk and crossed to where the boys were scrambling to pick up the books—some of which appeared to weigh more than either of them. It _was_ only their first day, using their wands to levitate the books back to their proper location was very likely beyond their abilities, just yet.

Not that Hermione could very well do that, either, but extenuating circumstances, and all that.

"It's fine," she said, forcing a smile to put them at ease. "You two return to your studies; I'll take care of this mess."

The pair relaxed instantly, nodding as they hurried back to their table.

Hermione started scooping up the books and replacing them, carefully and in their precise order. The last few, she bundled into her arms, but as she forced the first and second into their proper place, the final book fell from her hands.

The black, leather-bound volume hit the floor on its spine, forcing the front cover open, the pages fluttering about at random as it landed. This was hardly a book she thought belonged in the school library, but then Voldemort's ego knew no bounds.

Picking it up, she shook her head as her gaze skimmed the lines of newsprint, but she didn't _really_ read them. Collecting all news articles detailing Voldemort's exploits over the decades since his time as a student seemed _such_ a Muggle thing to do, that this book's very existence was almost laughable.

The only thing which had kept her from commenting as much when he'd asked her if she'd found a place for _his_ book had been that she considered any negative reply on her part might get the elves who'd been tasked with putting the book together punished. She'd never even looked inside it, convinced there was nothing new to be learned about the terrible wizard.

But the picture of _Tom Riddle, Jr_. staring back at her from beside the writing stopped her from slamming the book shut. Of course, the caption identified the man in the image as _Voldemort_ —as he was first rising to power, before Wizarding Britain had felt the need to start referring to him as You Know Who, or the distinctly more ominous He Who Must Not Be Named.

Yet . . . the wealth of dark, gleaming curls, bright captivating eyes, and devastatingly charming grin were not the Voldemort with whom she was now so familiar. He didn't even look like the boy Harry had met through the Horcrux in the diary—Harry had described the encounter in vivid detail for Hermione, in an attempt to make up for her getting petrified and missing everything. She felt sure she would've been able to tell young Tom Riddle, Jr. on-sight from Harry's retelling.

 _This_ Tom, however, this Voldemort, was tall and broad-shouldered with a chiseled jaw and a strong chin . . . . He'd clearly had the time to grow into himself between being the boy Harry recalled and transforming into the snake-faced creature she was now forced to dine with every day.

Hermione shook her head. Alarming, how handsome he'd been once, really. And dear God, why was she still staring at his picture? The man in the image appeared to have been caught in mid-conversation, his pretty lips moving to form words—that grin curving his mouth—and then pausing to turn a wrathful look on the photographer, clearly unaware his picture was being taken at the time.

"Mudblood?"

Hermione started slightly—it was as close to surprise as she exhibited, anymore—and turned, the book still open in her hands. "Yes?"

There Voldemort stood, Antonin Dolohov at his shoulder. In her periphery, she could see the handful of students present looking up from their studies to gape at the Dark Lord.

How . . . ? The library was so quiet, she should've heard their footfalls the moment they'd entered. She could not stop herself from glancing toward the picture and back up to the wizard before her as she wondered if she'd not heard them because she'd simply been _that_ distracted by the photograph. How absurd.

"Something, sir?" she asked when he didn't say anything further.

Voldemort was many things . . . stupid and unobservant were _not_ among them. "I am quite unused to startling you," he said, smirking as his gaze traveled from hers, to the article, and back.

"The shelves are a bit temperamental today. I was just replacing some—" She tried to close the book as she spoke, but Voldemort snatched it from her hands, cutting her off.

"Is _this_ what held your attention?" He sound both amused and intrigued.

Hermione chewed the inside of her lip as she considered how to answer. Strange how she was so aware that had this happened yesterday, she'd have closed the book without a glance.

But today, after the incidents with Mulciber and Rowle last night . . . . Suddenly she noticed things.

Things like unreasonably attractive wizards, apparently.

"I'm just surprised every time I remember you were actually _human_ , once," she said, her voice low and bored.

Rather than being angered by her flippant response, his smirk grew. Closing the book, he nodded and handed it back to her. At last, she'd shown a crack in her armor.

And he was going to exploit it if he had to go to Hell and back to figure out how.

As she replaced the book upon the shelf, Voldemort turned to Antonin. "I have seen all I need to. I am returning to the headmaster's office. You will be back here to escort her to dinner."

Antonin nodded. So, perhaps he'd have the opportunity to test Mulciber and Rowle's truthfulness for himself, after all.

Hermione didn't like the parting glance Voldemort cast her over his shoulder as he left, the Death Eater following at his heels. She liked even less the curious look in Antonin Dolohov's eyes.

She knew Mulciber and Rowle had not shared her secret with their lord—possibly because there was nothing in it for them, whatever the case, it _was_ to her advantage. Dolohov, however, was a wildcard as far as she was aware.

She always thought perhaps he hadn't forgiven her for surviving his curse. Whether or not there was any merit to that notion, she could not be certain he wouldn't tell Voldemort what his cohorts had seen fit to keep to themselves about her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Hermione was not looking forward to dinner that evening, but then, Antonin Dolohov did something that—after the actions of his cohorts—surprised her. He _ignored_ her.

She was grateful, but also confused by this. With the way he'd looked at her during Voldemort's troubling visit, she'd thought sure he'd catch hold of her, as Orias and Thorfinn had, to see her response. But he did not lay a finger on her, nor did he so much as glance in her direction.

It crossed her mind that perhaps he was expecting her to do something in the wake of the other incidents. That perhaps he thought she would act in preemptive measure to whatever she thought he might do.

She thought she should feel relieved by his apparent lack of interest for being in her company. Yet, she wasn't certain how she felt about it.

Over the next week, she couldn't be certain if everyone who kept close proximity to her was behaving odd, or if it were her imagination. After all, she'd deliberately avoided paying attention to them these long four months.

There was a relief in that after that night before the students returned was the last time Amycus and Nott, Sr. had pestered her. Though, she did still feel the latter watching her like a hawk whenever they were in eyeline of one another. She didn't know if their absence from the library was due to her ability to best them in verbal sparring that she'd only _just_ displayed for them that night, or because they were actually busy with their duties as teachers.

That was a mildly amusing thought . . . . Then, she became vexed with herself for that realization, because she had not been amused by anything, at all, not even mildly, since before Harry had died.

 _Oh!_ This was all that great oaf Orias Mulciber's fault. If he hadn't been so insistent on testing her wounds that night . . . .

Now, he still didn't speak to her when he escorted her about, but . . . . He did walk closer to her. And there was something about the nearness of his towering figure that caused her pulse to quicken, just a little. Every now and again, he would _accidentally_ brush against forearms, right where he knew her cuts were. He seemed to enjoy the small gasp she would utter at the contact.

Every meal time, his gaze would skitter over to lock on hers when no one else was looking. The strange part was not that he would do this, but that she only noticed he would do this because she was watching him, first.

Thorfinn hadn't changed much during his time escorting her, though now that he knew the little spitfire he remembered was still in there, somewhere, he made more attempts to engage her in discussion. However, she'd catch him smirking or winking at her every so often when they traversed an empty corridor.

Just as with Mulciber, the strange part was _her_ , as she found herself wanting to smile, just a tiny smile, in response. She thought she even might have once or twice, without realizing, because then he would seem to notice what he was doing—that he was getting her to _show_ that she was still alive in there—and his brightened expression would shut down.

She tried to ignore this . . . . He could not _possibly_ care that he might be endangering her, should Voldemort learn from one of his other followers that someone—anyone—had gotten a laugh or a smile out of her. To even consider such was madness.

Voldemort was the oddest change of all. Since the afternoon he'd discovered her pouring so intently over that photograph of his old— _pretty_ —self, he'd become reticent while they had their tea, but she was aware of him watching her the entire time. He did not engage her in conversation during meals, but she was more than aware of him casting a glance in her direction from the corner of his eye every few minutes.

Finally, tea time one week following that afternoon she found herself anxious at his continued silence. She hadn't felt anxious in so long and she hated the quiet sense of jagged ice stealing through the pit of her stomach.

She recalled Antonin Dolohov's expression of surprise when she'd pondered aloud in his presence—and his, alone—about needing undergarments. If she wanted to ensure she cemented her lifeless façade to Voldemort _, and_ said something that prompted him to break his discomforting silence, that would probably do the trick.

Hermione was so unnerved by his mute gaze, she had forgotten all three of her escorts were in the headmaster's office with them. She did not take into account that her words might have some affect them as she opened mouth and prepared the lackluster tone she'd mastered.

"My Lord?" Her voice spilled out, low but steady. She thought she could sense a flicker of interest from him in her regarding him so. She tried to never address him directly, if she could help it.

She certainly didn't make a habit of calling him _My Lord_ , and now she dreaded that the choice had been a mistake.

When she lifted her gaze from her tea cup, she noticed he, indeed, was watching her with an arched brow.

"Yes, Mudblood?"

Hermione tipped her head ever so slightly to one side, allowing herself to appear puzzled by his interest. "I have a request, not for the library, but for myself, if I may?"

Setting aside his cup, Voldemort rested his elbows upon his desk and folded his bony hands beneath his chin, the picture of undivided attention. "Go on."

"Undergarments." She could feel the ripple of surprise through the three Death Eaters stationed behind her.

The Dark Lord's naked brows shot up. "Excuse me?"

"Knickers? Brassieres?" she clarified, enjoying that she kept her face blank with such ease. "They are not a necessity, I understand, but they are things to which I am accustomed, and I have had none. To be frank, My Lord, washing and reusing the same pair repeatedly for four months—well, needless to say, I have been forced to make do with nothing but my robes."

Now, it was Voldemort's turn to tip his head to one side. Was she trying to garner a response from him? That seemed unlikely, as she was just as lifeless as usual, but this request, in the wake of finding her so fascinated with his former appearance?

Oh, _yes_. He knew how to proceed, now.

He ignored the uneasy tutting of his followers in the room at her seemingly-brazen topic of discussion. Clearly, they were concerned her words would anger or irritate him.

"If they are not a necessity, then why should I bother with providing you any?"

Hermione lifted her tea cup for a quick sip, hiding the sudden need to force a gulp down her throat. Setting it back down, with renewed listlessness in her demeanor, she said, "As stated, there are something to which I am accustomed, therefore the absence of them is a bit uncomfortable for me and may distract from my duties as librarian."

Truth be told, she rather liked being _braless_ , but the lack of knickers was more confining than freeing with wizards like Nott, Sr. watching her so intently. Consideration of that awareness sparked another idea.

"Also," she went on before he could respond, though he did seem to be weighing her request, "I believe there may be a Death Eater or two who watch me so closely, they may have noticed my . . . lack of binding, shall we say?"

"Oh?"

She ignored the sudden shifting in place she was certain was going on behind her. But, as the ones who were keeping her secret, they had nothing to worry about. The entire line of thought was strangely empowering.

"I tried to make them leave me alone with just words, but one of them threatened me. I think he may eventually try to harm me." God, she hoped he didn't make her clarify what she meant by _harm_.

There was a flicker of anger in Voldemort's serpentine face. "Who?"

"Theodore Nott, Sr. and Amycus Carrow."

The Dark Lord shot his gaze over the top of her head as he said, "Rowle, Mulciber . . . go collect your brothers-in-arms and bring them here. Dolohov, you will escort her back to the library."

Hermione stood from her seat, but remembered her own insistence at the last moment. "About the undergarments, My Lord?"

"I will task Narcissa and Alecto with seeing to that once I have dealt with the two you have named."

As she turned away, following Antonin from the room, she realized something. After their first few times trying to get a rise out of her, Amycus and Nott must've realized she'd not reported their antics to the Dark Lord.

Then again, had she done so at the time, she suspected Voldemort would have only cared that there were not _actively_ attempting to harm her.

A smile curved her lips as she was marched into the spiraling lift down to the corridor below. She might not be happy about Voldemort's new, seeming fascination with her, but that did not mean she should not use it to her advantage.

* * *

They traveled in silence, but then it was no more or less than she'd come to expect from Antonin Dolohov's company.

Upon entering the library, Hermione was disappointed to find it empty. Not that it had exactly been flooded with students under these new educational policies, but still, to find not a single student making use of the knowledge stored there . . . .

It was so still, the swinging shut of the library doors behind them seemed to echo through the vast space.

"I cannot tell if what you just did up there was motiveless, or the most sly bit of thinking I have ever witnessed."

Swallowing hard before sparing a moment to school her features, Hermione turned on her heel. She lifted her gaze to his. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

"We can drop the act, witch," he said, allowing his attention to flicker from her face to touch on her forearms—just long enough that she knew he was looking toward her wounds. "Exactly how long have you been playing the lot of us?"

She frowned, but it was a bland expression, and shook her head. "I have not been _playing_ anyone. If you have been speaking to Mulciber and Rowle, you might understand why I've become the way I am."

A smirk curved his lips as he nodded. "I do . . . but I also seem to see your precious little mask slipping. You might want to see to that."

Hermione tilted her head, unaware of that was true, or if he was trying to get a response out of her. Perhaps a glimmer of apprehension, maybe a plea to not tell Voldemort.

"I am afraid I don't know what you mean," she said, again.

"You took joy just now from tattling on Nott and Carrow, didn't you?"

"I just think those who tempt fate as they do should be taught how unwise it is."

She was good at this, he'd give her that. After a few solid moments of staring at one another, her demeanor, and the dullness of her eyes, did not falter.

Antonin reached for her arm, but as quickly as she braced herself for his grip, he stopped, his fingers hovering in the air. "You know, they talk about you—Thorfinn and Orias. They talk about how much you must like pain. About how it must arouse you."

His deliberate choice of words forced a small gasp from her, which only caused his smirk to widen a bit.

With a barely perceptible shake of her head, she said, "I do not wound myself for _any_ such reason."

Tsking, he gave a headshake of his own as he took a step closer, towering over her. "They were not talking of your cuts, at all. They meant the contact—the press of a hand against your torn skin." He lowered his head, bringing his face close to hers. "The rush of sensation through your lifeless little body that first time Mulciber grabbed you must have been a most exquisite surprise."

Hermione wanted to hang onto her _lifeless_ façade, but with the way he'd lowered his voice, practically growling the words, and the way his dark eyes burned into hers, she instead forced a gulp down her throat. They talked about her? The _three_ of them talked about her like this?

"Then, you sit in front of us and casually throw out that you've got nothing on _beneath_ your robes." Again, he tsked and shook his head. "Rowle and Mulciber must be _beside_ themselves with troubling hindsights."

"Enough. You are wearing on me, Dolohov," she said, her voice low and steady. She was unbelievably grateful she could sound so dead just now, because his tone and his closeness were doing the same thing to her that Mulciber's sneaked brushes did.

"Am I, now?"

"If you want to _test_ me for yourself, go ahead and do it." She sighed and held up her arm, waiting. "Then maybe you can leave me in peace as I think I'd like a nap before dinner."

Antonin looked at the offered limb. So, she was inviting him to see how she responded to a little pain, was she?

"You'll find that I do things a bit differently, I'm afraid."

"What do you—?"

Before she could even finish the question, he sank his fingers into her hair and clenched them into an unforgiving fist at the back of her head. Oh, _yes_ , she snapped to life fast, then. Color flooding her cheeks, her chestnut eyes glittering, and her mouth falling open in a gasp.

This side of her was what had Mulciber and Rowle so fascinated with her . . . . And what a precious thing it was, a hidden gem, really.

Hermione didn't know if she liked or hated the sweet thrill that ran through her as he gripped her like this. "What are you doing?"

Biting into his bottom lip, he leaned closer, still. Allowing her to feel the warmth of his breath against her skin, he said, "You invited me to test you. You did not specify _how_."

Against her better judgement, she flicked her gaze down from his to trace over his mouth, before shooting back up to his eyes.

"I dare say that look is inviting me, again."

He closed the distance, his mouth pressing to hers and his tongue plunging between her lips. Antonin used his hand on her to draw her closer, pulling her body against his as he kissed her.

Whether out of instinct or reflex, he found her returning his kiss. The witch caressed his tongue with her own, scraped at it with the edge of her teeth in teasing nips, drawing a pained groan out of him.

But it was the pleading sound that worked out its way out of her throat—a sound of wanting more—that called him to pull back.

She appeared quite dazed as he released her, but she quickly collected herself. Even with that flare of color still in her cheeks, she regained as much of her lifeless façade as she could manage as she lifted her gaze to his, once more. "Why did you do that?"

"I saw in you the same thing they did." He smirked one final time. "And you really _are_ quite something."

With that, he turned on his heel and exited the library.

Hermione drew in a calming breath and shook her head. Turning away, herself, she retreated to the librarian's quarters for that nap she'd mentioned. She tried to put Antonin Dolohov's kiss out of her head with every step.

* * *

Thorfinn's brows shot up as he opened his mouth to demand Antonin repeat himself, but it was Orias Mulciber's booming voice that cut through the quiet of the faculty quarters the three shared.

"You did _what_?!"

Antonin turned to face the other wizard, his dark brows shooting upward. Certainly, Orias Mulciber was the only person he—or even Thorfinn—found physically intimidating, but he did not see the point in how riled up he was just now.

If he'd wanted them to stay away from her, he should've kept what he'd discovered about her to himself.

"Kissed her. Sorry, does that upset you? Or is it that she kissed me back that has you all knotted up?"

Orias scowled, a downright frightening expression, as he stomped toward the door. "I'll take the liberty of seeing her to the Great Hall for dinner."

After he stepped into the corridor, the door slamming in his wake, Thorfinn turned a speculative look on Antonin.

"What?"

"You knew he was going to get all territorial, didn't you?"

Glancing back toward the door, Antonin cracked a grin. "Yes, I did. But she's not _his_ territory."

A smile of his own playing on his lips, Thorfinn nodded. "You are right about that." After all, Mulciber's little tantrum just now had done nothing to deter his own thoughts about the witch, either.

With said tantrum, and Antonin already having taken a liberty of his own . . . . Well, Thorfinn was going to have to start throwing more than winks and smirks her way, wasn't he?


	5. Chapter 5

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* * *

 **Chapter Five**

Hermione had just climbed under her covers when she heard a commotion in the library. Odd, she couldn't imagine any students making so much noise, not when they all seemed to constantly expect swift and strict punishment for something or another.

But the sound of the library doors being forced open, and then slamming shut was so loud, she thought it might've actually shaken the walls.

Frowning, she climbed right back out of bed and crossed her quarters. As she opened the door that led out to the library, she felt a genuine jolt of surprise to see Orias Mulciber storming toward her. Dear God, starting to feel things again was unpleasant.

She shook off the emotion, but not before she'd reacted. Sooner than she realized she'd even moved, she had backpedaled. And he followed—right into her quarters. He stared down at her, his breathing so heavy the rise and fall of his massive shoulders with each inhalation was noticeable.

Hermione could not imagine what _she_ had possibly done to make him so very angry. "What is—?"

"Dolohov," he said, as if that were an explanation.

Though, given what Dolohov had done before he'd left the library just a short while earlier, it was plenty of explanation. "Oh." Her brows drew up only a fraction as she nodded. She owed him nothing, now did she?

But she suddenly thought she had a very good idea why he was so upset, after what Dolohov had told her. After learning what her three escorts had been discussing recently.

Blinking her dulled eyes, she offered a barely-visible shrug. "What of him?"

"I . . . ." Orias closed his mouth, frowning hard. What was he to say to that? What the hell was he even doing here? He had no providence over her.

Yet, it infuriated him that Dolohov had been the one to make a move, first.

But from what he knew of her, perhaps he could coax her into having some sort of response. "Oh, c'mon, little witch. You're not stupid. You've _got_ to know why I'm less than happy, right now."

Again, that minimal lift of her brows as she nodded. "Indeed, I do, now that you put it like that. But I think I understand the situation even better than you do."

Uttering a scoffing sound, he drew up to his full height and folded his arms across his chest. "Really? _Do_ tell."

Hermione mirrored his stance as she stared up at him. She was really only guessing, but it was a good way to gauge what was really going on in their heads. And, if she could bargain with _them_ , perhaps they'd continue keeping her secret from Voldemort.

"You all want a piece of me."

Now, it was his brows that inched up. Well, damn, that did sound exactly like what was happening.

"And so, a piece of me is _all_ each of you get."

There was an edge of challenge in her voice, faint, but unmistakable. Was she daring him to test her on this?

He dropped his arms to his sides, a smirk curving his lips as he took a step closer to her. "If that's the case, I think I'll be taking my piece, now. But I warn you, it's certainly going to be bigger than what Dolohov got from you."

Again, Hermione backpedaled; this time he followed her until she was trapped between him and the wall. She wasn't afraid, and she wondered if that was stupid, but she had a feeling he wouldn't hurt her . . . at least not any more than she might want him to.

Holding her gaze, he withdrew his wand and then caught both of her wrists in his free hand. There was nothing so priceless as watching those chestnut eyes of hers spark to life, filling with curiosity as he pulled up her arms and pinned them above her head.

Smirking, he tapped her wrists once with the tip of his wand, and—quite to her surprise—she realized he'd just used a sticking charm. Who needed restraints when one had magic? Why had such a simple thing never occurred to her?

There was just something in the way he was looking at her that forced her to hold onto that flare of emotion he'd spurred. Staring up at him, she found it hard to breathe for a moment as she asked, " _This_ is how you want me?" Being bound was certainly a new experience for her.

That smirk widened into a grin as he nodded. " _God,_ yes."

Swallowing hard, she nodded back. "And what is it you mean to do with me?"

His lips were parted, so there was no missing how he ran the tip of his tongue along the edge of his teeth before he said, "I mean to find out if you taste as good as I think you do."

Again, she had to remind herself to breathe.

Orias arched a brow at the hint of color that flooded her cheeks. Well, that was a lovely look, indeed, but he was never one to waste his time where he wasn't wanted. "Unless there's an objection?"

A shiver wracked her, even as she shook her head.

That smirk again, just before he curled the fingers of his free hand into her hair and covered her mouth with his own. _God_ , the pleading whimper that tore out of her as he thrust his tongue between her lips was a divine sound.

But, just as fast, he broke the kiss, lowering slowly against her as he dragged his teeth over her through the fabric of her robes. He'd thought about this before—several times, in fact—but never quite so much as he had in the last half hour since her little revelation to the Dark Lord about not having any undergarments to wear. Just thinking that it must've meant she'd been bare under her robes every time he'd been around her for a while, now . . . .

The little moan she uttered as his mouth trailed down over her breast tore him from his reverie. Good thing, too, as he was in danger of getting hard, already, and he'd barely done a thing, yet.

As he drifted lower, still, he gathered the length of her robes in his free hand and tugged them up, out of his way. Flicking his gaze upward, he watched her face as he dropped to his knees. She hadn't been able to take her eyes off him.

Biting into his bottom lip, he tore his gaze from hers as he lifted her leg, resting it over his shoulder. Orias tilted his head, this way and that, making a show of it as he examined her.

The first exploratory touch of his fingers over her forced a gasp from her. God, it had been a while, hadn't it?

He uttered a pained groan as he parted her. "You're already wet and I've _barely_ done anything. You will never cease to intrigue me, will you?"

 _I certainly hope not_ , she thought, but she couldn't tell him that. He'd get too full of himself over it, and it seemed he was more than confident enough, as it was. And maybe there was just _a bit_ more to this than simply wanting to give him incentive to keep her secret.

Instead, she only said, "I don't know."

He noticed her eyeing his wand, then. He hadn't set it down, and he knew she must be wondering about that. With a grin, he tapped the tip to her leg, sending the faintest little shock of pain through her body as he brought his mouth to her.

She threw her head back, biting her lip to keeping in a moan she knew was likely to be heard outside the library's walls. That little, stinging jolt mixed with the stroking of his tongue and she lost her ability to think.

The way she pushed her hips from the wall, trying to get closer to him, brought a chuckle out of him. He obliged, however. Scooting closer to the wall so he could support her without pulling on her pinned arms, he lifted her other leg, sliding that over his shoulder, as well.

Hermione watched in a daze as his head moved against her. The pressure of his mouth buried between her thighs as he suckled and lapped at her was nearly too much. Nearly . . . .

Then, Orias seemed to remember that he'd taken his wand from her skin when he'd shifted her. He could feel her body tensing around him—dear Merlin, how long had it been since he'd had a woman's legs wrapped around his head? _Clearly_ far too long, he thought, as he was going at this much too eagerly.

He didn't care, though. The taste of her against his tongue, the feel of her skin pressed to his as she made those delicious whimpering moans for his ears, alone, was all that mattered. He wanted to make her come, just like this, and he had her right on the verge, already.

This would typically be considered _far_ too fast for his liking, but they could work their way up to that.

She shuddered at the way he swirled the tip of his tongue over her before he scraped his teeth against her and returned to suckling at that sensitive little bit of flesh. "Oh, dear _God,_ Professor Mulciber!"

A chuckle rumbled in the back of his throat. Well, he'd certainly never said she _didn't_ have to call him Professor, and he quite liked the sound of that . . . at least with the way her voice was shaking.

Hermione sank her teeth hard into her bottom lip as she pressed harder against him. Her body had gone taut and his tongue was _very_ skilled, but somehow, she seemed stuck there, right on the edge.

Then, he uttered a low rumbling sound, like a growl, and touched his wand to her skin, again. The sweet, little spark of agony that coursed through her in contrast to the working of his mouth pushed her over and she threw back her head, closing her lips against a scream as she came.

That growl shifted into a sound that was a bizarre mix of encouragement and hunger as he continued feasting on her.

Her orgasm seemed to last forever, and yet started to ebb much too quickly, all at the same time.

She held onto the blissful sensation, keeping her muscles tensed until fine tremors ran along her limbs, and her body gave out, quite without her permission.

Cupping her arse with his hands, he rocked her against his mouth, nursing her through the aftershocks.

When she finally stilled in his hold, little shivers still running through her, he lowered his wand. Though, he lapped and suckled at her for a few moments, more, before pulling back to look up at her.

She was staring down at him, again, that wonderful color in her face as she tried to catch her breath. Oh, so much more he wanted to do, but he thought she'd probably had enough, for now.

Setting her feet on the floor, he stood, an almost drunken gleam in his eye as he dispelled the sticking charm. He caught her as she unexpectedly collapsed forward. Well, he expected it, but he could tell from the look of surprise on her face that she hadn't.

"Well?" she asked, her voice tumbling out in a trembling whisper as he scooped her up and carried her across her quarters.

Orias arched a brow as he settled her on her bed and the tugged the covers up over her. "Well, what, little witch?"

Hermione swallowed hard, feeling the numbness starting to creep back over her. She wanted to get this question out before she felt herself slip back into genuinely not caring about the answer.

" _Do_ I taste as good as you thought I would?"

He smirked. "Oh, _yes_."

She nodded as she let her eyes drift closed. She'd planned on taking a before dinner, after all, hadn't she?

"I will be escorting you to the Great Hall for dinner," he informed her, as though reading her thoughts.

Again, she nodded. The last thing she heard as she drifted off was his footfalls going toward her door.

* * *

As Orias exited the librarian's quarters, he pulled the door closed. Huh, that had been open the _entire_ time. Thank Merlin the library'd had no visitors just now, or he would probably have some explaining to do to the Dark Lord.

Returning to the main room of the library, he realized . . . . Their Lord's bizarre treatment of the witch didn't just puzzle him, it _bothered_ him. There was something not quite right about it.

He knew the Dark Lord wanted to break her, so what did _that_ have to do with the torments he was now inflicting on Nott and Amycus for threatening her? Hadn't . . . hadn't Dolohov mentioned something about the serpentine wizard being particularly intrigued that she'd found photographs of what he looked like in his youth?

Leaning an elbow back against the front desk, he chewed his lip as he tried to make sense of it, all.

The library doors opened, then, drawing him from his pondering before he could give the matter any real thought.

Alecto arched a dark brow at him as she strolled in and headed for the Restricted Section. "What are you doing, lingering there?"

He frowned and offered a shrug. "Waiting 'til dinner, apparently. Our _librarian_ is catching a nap. You?"

She flashed a scroll over her shoulder as she kept walking. "Fetching research materials for our Lord."

Orias' frown deepened, but he didn't bother asking, as he knew he probably wouldn't get anything more out of her. He imagined she probably didn't know anything more than that, herself. They were both aware that the Dark Lord's business was many things—none of _theirs_ among them.

He was troubled by it, as he watched the dark-haired witch disappear behind the shelves. The Dark Lord needed to research something? Needed to research _anything_?

Since bloody when?


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

That night, Hermione felt yet another thing she had grown unaccustomed to over these months of being dead inside. An unpleasant, twitchy and anxious fluttering churning about in the pit of her stomach.

After that nap, Orias Mulciber had—just as he'd said he would—escorted her to the Great Hall for dinner. Though they'd done this so many times, tonight felt different, and she knew it was not due to what had gone on between them _before_ her nap. No, as they walked the long, ancient corridors of Hogwarts, his silence was not nearly the same as the pretense they'd adopted recently.

He seemed . . . . Preoccupied.

Yet, she knew if she asked then what was troubling him, that might cause unsavory passersby to read too much into the interaction. Seemed rather an unnecessary fuss, given that at that moment, she hadn't felt anything, really, other than a mild and fleeting curiosity.

But now, as the meal drew to a close, and she was aware of another muttered, secretive conversation going on between Orias, Thorfinn, and Dolohov, she could not stop herself from feeling that awful, trembling sensation in her gut. Especially when she considered the way their gazes kept flicking from her, to Voldemort seated in his gilded chair beside her, and back, as they spoke.

What on earth could they possibly be talking about that caused all three of them to regard her with what she could only call _concern_ in their eyes?

She did notice that Nott and Amycus were not at dinner. Likely, they were either recovering from—or still in the grisly throes of—whatever punishment Voldemort had deemed suitable recompense for harassing her. The witch knew it was wrong to feel anything over that, but she could not deny a small, visceral spark of joy at the thought of those two in torment. She didn't even know if she was simply rightfully pleased over their actions having repercussions, or if she'd just spent too much time living with no one but Death Eaters.

Dark Lord Snakey-face . . . . Hermione paused in her considerations. Huh, vehement disgust, there was a new feeling, as well. She'd not changed her views on Voldemort much over these months, either, except to find him more ridiculous than she'd previously thought possible, and even a bit childish in his narcissistic demands and his need for control. None of that had caused her to wake up enough inside to care to give him any sort of unflattering nickname.

Well, Orias and the others were really turning out to not be very good for her well being, weren't they?

Thorfinn had been chosen by the . . . _Dark Lord_ to escort her back to the librarian's quarters at the end of the meal.

As she rose to leave, however, Voldemort's bony hand snaked around her wrist, holding her in place. Though she felt another terrible and unfamiliar thrill of shock through her system at his touch, she merely glanced at his grip on her arm and then lifted her gaze, slow and measured in the raising of her head, to meet his eyes.

When he did not speak, she knew he was prompting her. Arching her brows upward in a tired, bored look, she said, "My Lord?" She should've known addressing him as such during tea was going to cause a problem. Now that she'd shown some level of acquiescence to him, she should have realized he'd want a repeat performance.

"Tomorrow, during morning classes, I shall have Narcissa and Mulciber escort you to the appropriate shops to acquire the items you requested."

Another shock, this time she actively had to hold herself back from reacting. She settled for giving him a mildly curious sidelong glance—nothing outside the realm of the weak, life-imitating responses he'd seen from her before She also refused, just now, to think on Orias having input about her knickers. "You would send a wizard with me to purchase under—"

Voldemort cut her off with a rich chuckle. "Of course not. He is merely to escort you, ward the establishment so that you cannot escape through some backway, and then he will wait outside. Narcissa will be with you to purchase them."

She didn't know if it was strange, or perfectly in keeping with the views of men in the Wizarding World, that he recognized how inappropriate it would've been to have a man hovering while she picked out intimate apparel.

Hermione nodded, but he'd yet to relinquish his grasp on her wrist. She managed to refrain from a grudging tone as she said, "Thank you for your consideration, My Lord."

At last, she felt his fingers slip from her skin. She turned, meeting Thorfinn's confused blue eyes. Both knowing they could not discuss the matter in, well, _any_ company, really, he put an arm behind her shoulders, not touching but quite obviously guiding her toward the double doors.

As they stepped down from the dais, she glanced back, for a quick moment, toward the other two. Antonin and Orias both looked perplexed at the not at all subtle interaction between her and their leader. She knew they weren't close enough to have heard the discussion over the din of students exiting the Great Hall; Antonin's expression was expected, but Orias'? His surprise could only mean the Dark Lord hadn't yet told him what he was tasked with tomorrow morning.

Voldemort had decided this on a whim? As they'd sat side-by-side, like they did every meal, eating in silence, like they did every time, too.

 _Something_ had made this meal different, and she couldn't understand what that might be.

But she knew Thorfinn had overheard them. And so, when they reached the library, she was not at all surprised that he shut the doors, locking them before turning his attention to her.

"What the bloody hell is going on with that man?" His eyes were wide and his face blank, as though his features didn't know what expression to make.

Finally letting her feelings rush in, she exhaled sharply and pressed her palm over her heart. Bracing her free hand on the front desk as she bowed forward slightly, she said "Oh, thank God I'm not the only one who thought that was odd!"

"You've no idea. Lately, he's been acting very . . . . Well, let's be kind and call it 'quirky'—I mean, even for _him_. I'm not afraid to say I'm a little worried for you, Sunshine."

She gave a sideways nod. "That makes two of us."

"No, no. He's—wait, that's right." Thorfinn shook his head. Taking her hand in his, he tugged her toward the Restricted Section. "Can you tell me what books here are missing?"

"Not off the top of my head." She dropped her gaze to his fingers clasped around hers as they crossed the library. "I'm _good_ , but I'm no Madam Pince. Why are you . . . ? That's why Orias was so preoccupied earlier, wasn't it? He never got to mention it to me, but he had a chance to speak with you and Dolohov just now. The Dark Lord's taken out some books, hasn't he?"

Thorfinn nodded as they paused outside the partition that led into Restricted Section. "We don't know what they were, Mulciber didn't see the list, but Alecto came in earlier—you were napping after getting up to something with him, I believe was how it went?"

At his arched brow, Hermione propped her hand on her hip, her other still thoughtlessly held by him. "Well, yes, if you must know. And I'll tell you this, like I told him—"

"We each want a piece of you, so that's all we get. Yeah, he passed along the message."

Her shoulders slumped. "Well, yes. But that's neither here nor there. What happened while I was napping?"

Shaking his head, he went on. "He said she came in with a list from the Dark Lord, to collect research materials for him."

The witch's face fell at that. "Your _lord_ is smarter than me, and has probably forgotten more magic than every person in this castle has ever known, combined. Since when does he need to research anything?"

"That's what we were thinking. That's why we're, well, concerned for you. He seems to have taken a sort of unhealthy interest in you."

She rolled back her shoulders as she stared up at Thorfinn, arching one brow. "Can you name me one thing about him that _is_ healthy?"

His features pinched. "Hmm, fair point."

"I knew I should've faked a poisoning or something," she said in a hushed, muttering breath.

Given the volume of her tone, he only picked up the word _poisoning_. "You're not serious."

"I said _faked_ a poisoning. Not for him. For myself to escape this madness." Hermione shook her head. "Just something long enough to convince him I'm dead would be nice. Like in Romeo and Juliet, when she fakes her death . . . well, before all the _actual_ death, of course."

Thorfinn frowned and gave a shake of his head in return. "Who the hell are Romeo and Juliet, and why are they running about fake-poisoning themselves?"

"Oh, right. Shakespeare's plays would've been ignored as 'Muggle works' when the Statute was enacted. Never mind. I was just thinking if I'd actually cared about any of this sooner, I might've thought of a way to get myself out of all this. Now? Now there's no way to get out of it without other people getting hurt because of me."

"Other people?" He shrugged, stepping a little closer to her. "You mean . . . you're actually worried what would happen to _us_?"

Again, she raised her brows at him. "You three, Narcissa Malfoy . . . . She tried to help Harry for the sake of her son, and look what's become of her. I'm sure tomorrow I _could_ find a way to escape when I'm outside—warded shops or no warded shops—but to do so would endanger her and Orias for not keeping a better eye on me. God, I hate the lot of you for making me feel again. You should've left me dead."

Thorfinn cursed under his breath. When the hell had he become the one for emotional conversations? Yet, here they were. Antonin and Orias having all the fun, and he was the one she was confiding in. What the bloody hell?

Snickering, he shook his head. Cupping her face in his hands, he lifted her head, holding her gaze. "Is that what you think? That you were better off that lifeless, shambling doll of a witch?"

She shut her eyes. She could sense it as they talked, creeping back in. Everything she'd staved off feeling all these months. The emotions crowded in her throat and clouded her eyes with tears. When she opened them, she felt the way the dampness tangled her lashes together.

"Maybe not better, but definitely safer . . . for all of us."

She knew she wasn't imaging his face lowering, then. There was no mistaking the warmth of his breath against her mouth. Before she knew it, he was so close, all she'd need to do was tip her head for their lips to meet.

"For what it's worth," he said in a whisper, "I'm pretty sure Mulciber wants _more_ than just a piece of you."

"Then he can tell me that, himself. I'm sick of people having some sort of claim over me. Stop thinking my decisions can be made for me by anyone else's wishes." She got enough of that from her forced employment under, and companionship to, the Dark Lord.

He understood her meaning, perfectly. Nodding, he waited there, his face hovering so near to hers. "In that case, I leave this decision in your hands."

Hermione frowned, shaking her head. She would ignore that she'd held onto her feelings just now without much effort, or any motivating flash of pain.

" _God_ , you are annoying," she said in an aggravated tumble of words before she gripped her fingers into his robes and pulled him toward her, closing what little distance had been between them.

She felt Thorfinn smile against her lips as he clamped his hands over her hips to drag her up against him. He tilted his head, his tongue darting into her mouth, playful but hungry.

Finding herself backed into the nearest shelf, she deepened the kiss, turning it from playful to rough and demanding in a blink.

Thorfinn pulled back, catching his breath in quick, rough gulps as he met her gaze. "Damn, no wonder they're so hung up on you."

Swallowing hard, she shrugged. She knew he meant Orias and Dolohov, and while she could certainly see it from Orias, she never thought anyone could ascribe _hung up_ to the way Antonin felt about her. "I think you're all mad in that regard."

"Perhaps we are," he said with a smirk. "No one ever said being mad couldn't be fun, though."

He lowered his head for another kiss, only to pull away, again, hissing under his breath. "Damn, it's like he knows."

Hermione watched him, her brow furrowing as he stepped back from her to clamp his right hand over his left forearm. She knew what this was—Voldemort was summoning him. "Well, let's hope that's not so."

Sighing, Thorfinn shook his head. Taking a chance, he pulled her close, but instead of stealing a second kiss, he dipped a bit further, dragging his teeth over her throat, just below her ear.

This time when he raised his head, he was rewarded with a delicious, heady haze in her eyes. He bit his lip on a grin, leaning close one final time to whisper in her ear. "Next time, I'll expect you to use your teeth on me, too."

She couldn't deny she was in a bit of a daze as he turned on his heel and started back through the library. It wasn't any good for anyone's health, but she couldn't stop herself for that moment from imagining using her teeth on Thorfinn Rowle . . . to picture dragging her mouth along his skin . . . . Teasing his pulse with the tip of her tongue . . . .

The sound of the library doors closing behind him as he stepped out snapped her back to reality.

Giving herself a shake, Hermione forced her thoughts to less exciting notions, and willed her misbehaving body to calm itself. Damn Viking. Getting her all worked up like that just from a kiss. She patted her hands against her face, making sure she didn't have a blush flaring in her cheeks.

Hermione cleared her throat and crossed the room to retrieve the RS catalog from the front desk. Returning to the Restricted Section, she carefully and meticulously began matching shelved volumes to the records in her hand, searching for just which books the Dark Lord was using in his mysterious research.

* * *

Arriving in the headmaster's office, Thorfinn saw immediately that he was not the only one summoned. Though, he knew he should expect the looks he received from Mulciber and Dolohov as he strolled in, he still gave a little start.

Darting his gaze around at the room full of Death Eaters as he drew closer to his companions, he muttered out of the side of his mouth, "What the bloody hell is happening?"

Mulciber shrugged. "No one knows, yet. Should we wonder what took you so long?"

Thorfinn's brows rose. "Do you really _want_ to wonder?"

Dolohov rolled his eyes while Mulciber glowered, but they both knew he was right. None of them had a claim over the witch, and the best way to keep the peace was to simply not discuss any . . . carnal issues that might involve her.

Getting himself back on track, Orias lowered his voice so that the other two had to duck close to hear him. "Did you tell her about the books?"

Thorfinn nodded. "She said she'll have to look it up, but I mean, it's _her,_ she'll find out which books it was."

Both of the other wizards looked satisfied with this response. It wasn't going to be much of a help just to know what books they were, they understood that much, but it would give them all some sense of what the Dark Lord might be up to.

"You're all gathered, perfect."

All the robed figures in the room turned as one to face Voldemort as he slunk up to his desk and took a seat. "Tonight, I will begin a complex and lengthy ritual."

Orias knew he wasn't the only one present who felt an instant coiling of sick suspicion in the pit of his stomach. He didn't dare look at Rowle and Dolohov to confirm it, though. This was just too coincidental that on the heels of needing to research something, he wanted to embark on some magical feat.

"I will require a number of you to provide a silent presence, observing and assisting _only_ if required." He pointed to a number of them, in turn—including Rowle and Dolohov—and then continued. "We will begin immediately. The rest of you are to maintain the running and management of the school as though _nothing_ has changed. Should I learn that something has gone amiss when this ritual is completed . . . . Well, I think it should go without saying that I will _not_ be pleased."

This time, Orias hid a frown. He knew perfectly well why he'd been excluded from observing and assisting in this endeavor, because he'd been charged with escorting Hermione and Narcissa tomorrow morning . . . which obviously meant this ritual would still be going on by then.

"This is ancient magic, and it will be exhausting for all involved, but when it is over, I will be stronger for it, and thus, so will _you_."

Now the three couldn't help but exchange a quick glance. Just what the hell _sort_ of ancient magic was the Dark Lord getting up to?


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Hours after the ritual had begun, the effects of the magic started taking their toll on the Dark Lord. The gathered Death Eaters—known of them quite certain what this ancient magic their lord had dug up was meant to accomplish—kept watch, periodically renewing the silencing charms around the headmaster's office, so their leader's screams of agony could not be heard by anyone outside the room for even the barest second.

Antonin had no idea what time it even was, nor how long they'd been at this, only that it had been some time that had passed. Was it the middle of the night? The next morning, already? Was their witch out, buying knickers that very moment, while they stood by listening to this horrific wailing?

Thorfinn was equally agitated, he knew this situation did not bode well, at all. The Dark Lord's grip on reality had always been a bit tenuous, but it seemed whatever he was attempting to accomplish with this ritual might cause him to slip a bit further down whatever dark hole in which his mind was already so mired.

Perhaps this torment would prove too much and the elder wizard would simply croak in the process.

His broad shoulders slumping, Thorfinn shook his head. Thank Merlin their leader was too embroiled in his ritual's torturous effects to pry into anyone's mind just now and read that sentiment from him.

But, really, so much of what had actually gone on since Potter's death was not at all what any of them had signed on for. Was it so out of place to wonder when this madness would end?

To acknowledge that it would only end with their lord's death?

* * *

Hermione was _very_ aware of the moment Narcissa Malfoy and Orias Mulciber switched places. They'd been walking quietly through Hogsmeade, the other witch—silent as always—keeping pace at her side, while the massive wizard trailed them.

Then, at some point, Narcissa drifted backward and Orias forward, to walk in her place.

"Keep walking toward the shops and for God's sake, master the art of whispering," he said in an impossibly low murmur. Hermione barely heard him and she was walking beside him, she highly doubted anyone passing them on the street could make out what he was saying.

"I am quite practiced at whispering, I assure you."

He nodded at her words—hardly louder than a breath of air. That _was_ good! But he could not help a smirk curving his lips. "I seem to recall you having a little bit of trouble controlling your volume."

Clearing her throat in an awkward sound, she glanced about fast, hoping there was no blush flaring in her cheeks. "Totally different circumstances, I'll remind you, and that was _your_ fault."

Orias snickered. "Guilty as charged."

"Anyway," she prompted, noticing that they were nearing the dress shop, now. "You pulled this switch with Narcissa, because . . . ?"

With a thoughtful frown, he scratched at his beard as he spoke. "I may have played on her sympathies toward you. Told her you and I are in something of a relationship to gain her cooperation in allowing you and I some time alone on this trip."

At that, she could not help the way her steps stilled, her how her eyelids fluttered in a series of rapid blinks. "You said what?"

"Be grateful it's not entirely true, Little Witch, or I'd _really_ have to take you to task for your dalliances with Dolohov and Rowle."

Not entirely true? So he did actually see them has having _something of a relationship_ , to quote him. That was interesting. A little heartwarming, but she didn't have the luxury to consider that.

"Did you find anything useful about the books Alecto took?"

"Beyond that they were volumes on ancient magic rituals?" She shook her head. "No. They _all_ had several types of magic, at least a dozen rituals a piece. Pinpointing where the information contained in each overlaps would require having the books on hand. But I do know we're talking old magic. Capable of the sorts of things that modern magic just doesn't accomplish, at least not without the use of a potion or something far more complex to bring about their effect."

"Damn it all. That's nothing we didn't already know." He looked around, noticing that they were almost at their destination. Glancing back toward the elder witch, he met her gaze and nodded. Though a flicker of worry crossed her narrow features, she nodded back.

Hermione looked up, catching only the very end of the silent interaction. The next thing she knew, Orias had latched his hand around her arm and was pulling her into the nearest alleyway.

When she found herself pinned between his body and the wall at her back, she blinked up at him. "So, this 'something of a relationship' we're supposedly in includes . . . ."

He nodded, smirking once more. "Shagging? Oh, _yes_. Turns out that's the crux of our dynamic."

She felt breathless just from the way he was looking at her. Felt her skin warm from the weight of his blue eyes tracing her lips. She knew, for certain, that there was a bloom of color in her cheeks, now.

His hands slid over her, pulling up the length of her robes and slipping beneath them to stroke her bare skin. The brush of his fingers between her thighs made her shiver. "Well, just giving you a look is all it takes, I see."

The witch bit her lip, holding back a quiet moan at his touch. "Depends on who's giving said look," she answered, perfectly aware what was happening as he lifted her leg over his hip and started fumbling to open his own robes.

"'S all right, I suppose." He bit hard into his bottom lip as he held her gaze, a delicious, hazy sheen in his eyes, and his breath dancing across her skin. "Seems the way you look right now has the same affect on me."

She braced herself, choking back a gasp as he thrust his hips, entering her slow and hard. "Oh, God," she said, shivering at the feel of him inside her. She raised her other leg and wrapped her arms around his neck, letting him support her weight completely as he withdrew and pressed forward, again and again.

"This is probably a . . . a really bad idea," she said, surprised she could string a sentence together just now.

He laughed, a gloriously breathy sound, still holding her gaze as he moved against her. "Oh, it's a _terrible_ idea."

Orias uttered a groan at the feel of her body clenching tight around him. "Dear, _God_ , woman! Close already, are you?"

Licking her lips, she nodded, shrugging in his embrace, though it was far from a simple movement, what with how her muscles were beginning to tense on her. "I've been more or less . . . ." She paused, forcing a breath as he quickened his pace. "More or less on edge since what you did yesterday."

He lowered his head, nipping at her bottom lip. "So, you've just been waiting for me to finish the job have you? _All_ night, just . . . wondering what this would feel like? Must've been torture."

Her breathing hitched and she tried for another shrug, but couldn't get her body to cooperate this time. "You know what they say about anticipation being a form of foreplay."

Orias granted her a surprised grin. "I do, I'm a little shocked _you_ know it." He clamped his hands over her hips, the grip of his fingers unforgiving as he pulled her away from the wall just enough to rock her against his motions.

She finally could not stop herself from breaking eye contact with him, her lids drifting downward as her head fell back. A moan she couldn't help started in the back of her throat, and he acted fast to silence her. He brought his mouth down on hers in a hungry kiss that swallowed the sound as she came.

The feel of her trembling around him had him wondering just how much longer he could hold on, himself, but they _were_ pressed for time, and he knew he could at least last until her orgasm was over. It had clearly been far too long for both of them. They were going to have to get up to this particular activity _much_ more often.

He waited for her grip to loosen, for her body to relax against him. She all but collapsed in his hold, inadvertently breaking the kiss as she dropped her forehead against his chest.

Orias rocked her more sharply, now, thrusting into her harder and faster. His motions became unsteady as he got closer, the little rumbling sounds of satisfaction working their way out of her at his jerking strokes edged him along further, still.

She clamped her lips together, holding back a scream when he moved into her one last time, the force of it jarring her body against the wall. His hands over her hips continued moving her over him as he spent himself, slowing by increments until he was finished, entirely.

Forcing a gulp down his throat, he met her gaze as she raised her head. "Think maybe we should . . . catch our breath a moment before going back out into the street."

With an airy laugh, she nodded. "Sounds good. Give me a minute to get my legs working, won't it?"

He granted her a look that made her think he was just short of puffing out his chest with pride.

By the time the pair stumbled back out into the busy daylight of the street before the dress shop, they found Narcissa Malfoy arching a brow at them as she shook her head. Though she was effectively mute, the way she stood with her arms folded beneath her breasts and one foot audibly tapping beneath the hem of her robes, spoke volumes.

"Sorry we took so long." Orias said with a wink and a charming grin. "Believe it or not, though, that was actually quick for us."

Her eyes shooting wide, Hermione could not help giving him a smack on his arm. She pretended the contact of her hand against solid muscle didn't sting, after all, _that_ sort of feeling she was quite used to by now. Aware she'd just shown an emotion-based response in front of someone other than her three . . . hell, she couldn't keep calling them her escorts or witch-sitters, now, could she? They were more than that, all of them, though at this moment, Orias was _technically_ the only one she could legitimately call her lover.

Well, formal naming of what they were to her hardly mattered if Narcissa wasn't okay with playing dumb for them.

She turned a worried frown on Narcissa. "You really won't tell what's going on between us?"

Narcissa's face fell. She shook her head and pressed her hands over her heart. Really, Hermione Granger was one of the few people who treated her kindly. She was not about to repay that by tattling on the girl for finding a moment's respite in all this madness.

Hermione's brow furrowed, and she just barely refrained from making some outward gesture of gratitude. "Thank you. Now . . . ." Drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slow, she affected her typically doll-like façade. "Mrs. Malfoy? Shall we?"

The pale-haired witch nodded, leading the way into the shop. Hermione would ignore that as she perused the selection of undergarments within, she wondered over each and every piece what her three . . . whatever she could call them would think of her choices.

* * *

One final, terrible shriek—so loud and prolonged, it seemed the walls shook with the force of it—tore out of the Dark Lord, and then silence fell. The assembled Death Eaters looked around at one another. Night had fallen by now, and the lot of them were tired and hungry, going at keeping this ritual protected without rest or food for any of them.

Thorfinn thought, once more, about how much of a relief it would actually be if this ritual proved to be too much and ended the man. As he exchanged a glance with Dolohov, he thought it clear, from the gleam in the dark-haired wizard's eyes, that they were both of the same mind on that.

When the silence stretched on, they collectively rose from where they were and started toward the partition at the back of the headmaster's office on cautious footfalls.

And, just as collectively, they all stopped short at the sound of movement from the other side. There was a hushed, pained muttering as that movement drew closer to the break in the partition's dark curtains.

A body pitched forward, onto the floor and the Death Eaters started as one, reflexively aiming their wands at the figure. They could not see the face, but none of them recognized the wealth of dark curls on his head. They weren't aware of anyone being in the makeshift ritual chamber with their leader.

Thorfinn frowned thoughtfully, stepping around the others to peer inside. Even in the darkness, he could see the blood spattering every corner . . . as though someone had been torn to shreds in here, yet, there was no other body inside. Only the one that had just fallen to the floor at their feet.

The one that had just drawn a loud, shuddering breath.

Turning toward the others—they each appeared to be waiting for him to say something, anything to explain this—he couldn't find it in himself to speak on what this was. Instead, he looked to the man who was struggling to pull himself up on his hands and knees.

Not waiting for him to have the chance to look about, Thorfinn bent his knee and bowed his head. He had no idea what had just happened, but if the Dark Lord was capable of this, the last thing he wanted was for the elder wizard to know his loyalty was wavering.

" _This_ is our Dark Lord," he finally forced out when he became aware that some of the others had been confused by his action.

Dolohov, at least, had the brains to move when Thorfinn had. As did Alecto. But all three of them, as they listened to the others scrambling to follow suit, lifted their heads just enough to watch the man who was slowly—what seemed painfully—forcing himself to his feet.

He straightened his shoulders with a wince, breathing heavily as he held his hands up, examining them. Strong, long fingered, so much more appealing than the bony digits to which he'd become so accustomed.

And . . . as he curled his hands into fists, the brush of his fingertips against his palms . . . . Oh, the sensation was _exquisite_. He'd completely forgotten what it felt like to have true, human flesh.

"Thank you for understanding my transition, Thorfinn. You may all leave, now." He said, even as he retrieved his wand from the folds of his robe. With a flick, he drew a nearby mirror toward him, holding the reflective surface hovering in the air before him. "Not you, Alecto. You will stay."

The witch's green eyes shot wide as she glanced over her shoulder at their changed leader. She could feel the press of gazes on her and she looked around to see Rowle and Dolohov each giving her meaningful expressions. Her fellow Death Eaters were concerned for her. Touching, but whatever was about to happen was hardly a situation they could help.

With a barely perceptible nod, she turned on her heel and started back toward the Dark Lord.

She resumed her place, kneeling before him, as she awaited whatever he might say, next.

She hadn't truly looked at him yet, she didn't dare. But she was unnerved at the way he spoke to his own reflection when the others had left the room.

"Oh, hello, Tom Riddle," he said, a smile in his voice as he stroked his fingertips along his cheekbones. "Long time no see."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Alecto felt the oddest urge to hold her breath. She wasn't quite certain why, only that she felt a strange, creeping sensation that she should have all her wits about her just now, and even the sound of her own breath could detract from her perception.

Though she didn't want to, she flicked her gaze up to look at him. Only for a moment, the quickest glimpse, and then she dropped her attention back to the hem of the Dark Lord's robes. In the silence, the small gulp she forced down her throat felt incredibly loud. She didn't even particularly fancy men, and yet, that flickering image she'd just caught of him set off a blush in her cheeks.

He was . . . . Giving her head a subtle shake, she pushed the awareness of his new, changed appearance—or, perhaps she should consider this his _old_ appearance—out of her thoughts.

Voldemort was completely oblivious to his follower's momentary struggle as he stared at himself in the mirror. At the curious grin that curved his full lips, and the breathtaking blue of his eyes. _Well, now_. In his younger days, he'd known he was handsome, but it was not until now, until after he'd been no more than that inhuman shell for so long, that he truly appreciated his looks.

Holding the gaze of his reflection, he tipped back his chin, admiring the lines of the muscles in his neck. So, this was what narcissism felt like. Smirking, he reached beneath the collar of his robes to drag the tips of his fingers along his clavicle.

Alecto heard the strange, blissful sigh that erupted from him, but she refused to look up again.

It must be that he'd simply forgotten what this felt like. The simple sensation of skin sliding against skin . . . . He tapped his wand against the floating mirror, and it expanded, reflecting his entire form.

His features, these rich, dark curls so long they tumbled over his forehead and brushed the base of his neck, the breadth of his shoulders . . . . Sinking his teeth into his bottom lip, he watched himself in the mirror—as though he found his own reflection some bizarre, exotic creature. He opened his robes, his movements slow and careful as he peeled back the layers of fabric to examine his own naked body in full.

The Dark Lord's brows shot upward. He really _had_ forgotten what he looked like.

But this was perfect, yes. He felt certain, as he couldn't help running his hands over the flat planes of his own muscles while he continued observing himself in the mirror, unabashed.

Yes. _This_ was the thing that would finally break his darling little Mudblood.

Something . . . intriguing happened, then. As he stroked along his skin with the flat of his palm, his gaze tracing the lines of his bared form in the reflective surface before him, the simple, _lovely_ sensation of touch mingled with his notions of finally having found something capable of bending her to his will.

That _was_ what this had all been about, after all.

That look in her eyes, the way she'd become so very distracted with that old photograph of him—appearing just as he did now. Yes, now as he explored himself, he understood what that look had been. That awareness, alone, awoke unexpected thoughts. Forced his wishes about her to take on new facet that, admittedly, caught his breath in his throat and quickened his pulse.

He wanted to know what this would feel like, were they _her_ hands on him. Wanted to know what it would sound like to hear her begging him, shamelessly, to do with her as he pleased. He'd meant for her to be a trophy all along, hadn't he? Who was to say she couldn't be a trophy that shared his bed?

He bit hard into his lip, his eyes drifting closed. He wanted to tear that old Gryffindor pride from her and leave it tattered in pieces around her. He wanted her to care so little for it that she would gladly crawl into his lap in the crowded Great Hall if he bid her to do so.

Holding back a rich chuckle, he considered what the faces of his followers would look like, were he to splay her on the table during a meal time and feast on her, like some decadent dessert, not caring who could see. He could make her crawl behind him on her hands and knees anywhere he went, if he so wished, not a strip of fabric on her, allowing others sweet glimpses of his most precious trophy.

But no . . . that was perhaps too far. After all, she was exactly that. _His_. And others should not have the privilege to so much as look upon any part of her unless _he_ so deemed it.

He became aware of an odd twitching low in his body, then. The sensation wasn't wholly unfamiliar, but he hadn't experienced it in so long that when he looked to the source of the feeling, he was nearly surprised to find that his own touch, combining with thoughts of what he wanted to do to his Mudblood, had _stirred_ him.

Then, he did laugh at the thought that he'd been startled by the sight of his own erect cock.

He also noticed Alecto jump just a little at the sound. With a soft sigh, he let these newly broad shoulders of his droop a little. Turning to face her, his robes still hanging open around him, he reminded himself that this was why he told her to stay behind. He'd known there was a chance his body would respond this way.

She had yet to look up, but he could tell from the vivid wash of color in her cheeks that she was perfectly aware of her situation.

"Alecto?" he said, his tone soft, even to his own ears.

The witch closed her eyes before raising her head. Even his voice was different. Before it was rasping, nails on chalkboard nearly. Now, it was pleasant, low, gravelly. This ritual, whatever it had been, the power of it to restore him like this was _terrifying_.

"Alecto? Look at me."

Swallowing hard, she opened her eyes. The blush in her cheeks must've deepened because she could swear the warmth of it threatened to burn straight through her skin. "My Lord?"

A gentle smile touched his lips—the uncharacteristic nature of the expression scared her—as he gestured toward himself. "As you can see, I have a bit of a predicament. Relieve me of this burden, would you?"

Her green eyes shot wide as she, unable to help herself, looked to his so called predicament, and then back up to his face. "Oh, but . . . My Lord, I think perhaps I'm not . . . not the best person for this . . . task. You see, I don't—"

"Yes, yes," he said with a weary sigh and a dismissive wave of his hand. He needed his wits about him as he considered how best to manage his Hermione-problem, and he didn't imagine he'd be able to think very clearly with his body so aroused. "You do not fancy men. I am aware, neither do I, hence your presence. But . . . I shall make you a deal."

Alecto's brows shot up at that. A _deal?_ The Dark Lord didn't make deals. He threatened and forced, he commanded.

This unexpected circumstance was enough to prompt the question from her. "What sort of deal?"

That grin of his widened, not looking quite so gentle now. "And, I am _also_ aware of your . . . we'll say relationship with Narcissa."

She slapped her hand against her mouth, covering a gasp. A moment passed before she could manage to speak. "My Lord, I'm . . . I'm sorry, I didn't mean for that to happen. She's just so lonely with Lucius being away so often with your business for the Ministry, and—"

"I will ensure that neither Lucius nor Draco learn of what you and Narcissa get up to when you're alone in the hospital wing . . . . In exchange for your aid right now. And I shall _never_ ask, again."

Alecto dropped her gaze to the floor as she weighed her options. Just a one-off? She . . . she could manage that, she thought. She wasn't especially pleased, but he was now an impressively built man, who still wielded some of the most powerful magic she'd ever witnessed. She was perfectly aware that if he wanted something like this from her, he didn't have to _ask_ , let alone bargain for it. He could _Imperius_ her, he could force her physically . . . .

He hadn't even said he'd make sure the Malfoy wizards found out if she _didn't_ assist him. No, he'd only said he'd ensure they didn't find out if she did. She knew her dalliance with Narcissa was wrong, but she didn't want the other witch to get hurt, not when she could prevent it.

Returning her attention to his face, she nodded. "As you say, My Lord."

That grin melted, shifting into a smirk as he said, "Good girl." He beckoned her closer with a crooked finger.

She crept across the floor on her knees. As she reached him, she shook her head. "I'm sorry, My Lord, but I've never . . . . I don't actually know how to—"

He cut off her fretting by reaching down and stroking her cheek. "I will assist you. All _you_ need do is open your lips."

Nodding, she closed her eyes, thinking it took a monumental force of will to do as instructed.

He ignored memories of what this sort of thing felt like. Everything was so new and sharp, that when he slipped his fingers around the base of his cock to guide himself into her mouth, his entire body shuddered at the sensations that coursed through him.

His own eyes drifting closed, he sank his fingers into her hair, guiding her movements.

* * *

"What are you two blathering about?"

Thorfinn and Antonin exchanged an exasperated look. "The ritual the Dark Lord conducted. It was a blood rite. No one knows _how_ he did it, exactly, but he gained back his original flesh."

Orias frowned at the other blond wizard's explanation. "Is that why he wanted her out of the castle?"

"You think this has to do with Hermione?" Antonin asked, though he already knew the answer—they all did.

"You think it doesn't? Doting on her, granting her requests, punishing people who even mentioned wanting to harm her?" Orias did not like the sound of this at all. Forget anyone who wanted to harm her, he was pretty certain he'd be in much more trouble if the Dark Lord learned he was shagging the witch. "You saw what he did to Amycus and Nott for that very sort of thing. I'd be surprised if they're even still breathing after that."

"Oh, God!" Thorfinn shook his head. "All that blood I saw . . . . What if it wasn't his? With all that screaming, I thought it had to be the Dark Lord's, but . . . ." Those shrieks had _definitely_ come from Voldemort, but now he wondered if the blood hadn't been part of some ritual preparation to which his followers had not been privy.

"We should probably go check on those two."

His companions nodding, Orias opened the door to their shared quarters, only to stop short. A mildly-confused looking Alecto Carrow was drifting down the corridor. Not toward them, but in their general direction. She appeared unharmed, but the dazed expression on her face . . . .

Thorfinn and Antonin shared another look. "Dear God," Thorfinn said in a whisper, "what did he do to her?"

The three of them caught up to her, and she started, seeming shocked to find them standing before her. "Wh—what?" she asked, her voice tumbling out in a shaky whisper.

"Are you okay? When he made you stay behind, we were . . . well, I'd say worried, but that might be stretching it a bit."

Thorfinn elbowed Antonin in his ribs for the insensitive conclusion to his statement. It was no secret the two didn't get along, but voicing that was hardly the way to get her to open up about whatever had just happened to her.

"I . . . I'm okay, yes, just . . . disconcerted, I suppose, by something that just went on. He kept me behind to ask something of me." Knowing the next logical thing was to inquire about just what he'd asked of her, she shrugged and looked away. "The Dark Lord had a feeling that . . . his body was going to overreact to the sensation of touch, again, so he bid me . . . assist him in alleviating the burden."

"Merlin's beard! You didn't shag him, did you?"

Her jaw fell open at Antonin's question and she shook her head. "Of course not. Do I _look_ like Bellatrix to you?" Honestly, where was that barmy bitch when someone needed her? Oh, right, six feet under.

Orias detected a . . . not terribly unfamiliar puffiness to the witch's lips, and what looked like a faint bruise forming in one corner of her mouth. Well, someone had been a bit rough.

Catching her chin in his fingers he tipped her head back to examine her mouth. Twenty galleons said her throat was killing her right now. "You sucked him off."

She backpedaled, wrenched her face from his grip. "Don't you talk of what I just did in disgust. He made me a deal."

All three of them appeared properly shocked by this revelation. "He did what?" they asked in the same breath.

"Yeah, I know." Alecto shrugged again. "But that's what happened. Protect someone I love—" she nearly paused, then, the word startling her, but she supposed that she _did_ love Narcissa Malfoy—"if I do this for him. Under those circumstances, I'd do it all over again, but he gave me his assurance he would not ask me for a repeat performance. Those two things were all I needed to hear."

"If you're all right with what you just did, why do you look so . . . out of sorts?"

"It's not to do with me," she said, frowning. She honestly, truly didn't want to care. Caring about people was _exhausting_ , but she couldn't say she didn't admire the younger witch's resilience and spine. That, alone, fostered at least a little concern.

"When he was . . . when he was finishing, he whispered something. I don't think he even realized he said it, let alone that I heard him."

Orias looked to the other two. He knew he wore the same expression of dread as he saw on their faces, even as he asked. "What did he say?"

Letting her eyes drift closed, Alecto shook her head. She answered in a murmur, " _Mudblood_."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

As they entered the dungeons, none of the three expected the sight before them. Even as Death Eaters, and with all the things war, and their own leader's depravities, had shown them, not one of them was prepared to find the cells—

"Empty?" Thorfinn asked in a whisper, his tone threaded with disbelief.

Orias and Antonin exchanged a confused glance. Just as fast, however, a look of realization dawning crossed the dark-haired wizard's face.

Orias' brows drew upward in question.

With a roll of his eyes as he shook his head, Antonin answered, "We were instructed to bring them here. If he had them dragged off elsewhere, someplace where he maybe might go to keep anyone from stumbling over what he was doing, then I can only think of one place."

The Vikings appeared remarkably brother-like—reminding their companion of why there was such a rampant misconception about them among the Death Eaters in the first place—Thorfinn and Orias both groaned, their massive shoulders slumping.

"Oh, bloody Christ, man! Not the Chamber . . . ." Orias shook his head, his features pinched in disgust.

Thorfinn scowled, his blue eyes narrowed, already aware there was no arguing about their next destination. "I hate that place . . . still smells sloughed-off snake skin."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better," Antonin said with a shrug, his knowledge of anatomy and torture techniques applicable just now, "if he really did use their blood for this, and the ritual area was as much of a mess as you say, there's no way he left Amycus and Nott breathing."

The blond wizards exchanged a glance. "That's supposed to make us feel better?" Thorfinn asked, his eyebrows all but disappearing into his hair.

Antonin shrugged as he started leading the way back out of the dungeons. "Well, yeah. Means we don't have to worry about saving anyone's life."

As far as Orias was concerned, they might not be rushing to pull those two idiots from the jaws of death, but time was still of the essence if they wanted to investigate the chamber and still make it back to the library before morning. One of them had to warn Hermione about what the Dark Lord had been up to.

And he had the oddest feeling that right now, their leader might suddenly decide she didn't require escorts anymore. All the better to ensure he would get the pleasure of witnessing her shock and true reaction to her first, unprepared, glimpse of what he'd done for her.

Orias shook his head as he followed the other two back through the castle along back corridors and lesser-used passages to reduce the likelihood of their little investigation being discovered. He knew one of them should double-back, instead, and head for the library. He'd never exactly been a cautious man—that type of thinking didn't seem to run in the Mulciber line—but he understood that without knowing what might await in the Chamber, proceeding as a unit was their wisest course of action. Normally, he was able to count on his own brute strength and natural sturdiness, but in cases like this, safety in numbers was the way to go, even if he was loathe to admit it.

And, of course, as much as he wanted to move fast, there simply was no speedy way to get into the blasted Chamber of Secrets. He only hoped their leader wasn't down there right now, or they'd be up shit's creek as far as explaining their sudden appearance down there.

* * *

Hermione tossed and turned. She'd had so much trouble falling asleep to start. Everything going on recently felt so wrong. So . . . so much like they were all walking into a trap. They all knew it had been set, but none of them were aware what might be the misstep that would trigger it.

Shifting beneath her covers, she became cognizant of someone in the room with her.

The witch barely stopped herself from calling out Orias' name. If it were anyone else skulking about the library at this hour, she could get him in so much trouble . . . .

Understanding that a train of thought this coherent meant she probably had woken up at some point without realizing, she forced open her eyes. With a yawn, she stared up at the ceiling of the librarian's quarters for a quiet moment.

She was listening. Trying to determine who was in the room with her. How many, how far from her.

One person. She heard one person's breath, only audible due to how very still and silent the room around them was. And if she could gauge, she thought perhaps they stood in the doorway.

Closing her eyes, once more, she stirred, allowing herself a lazy stretch. If it was one of her wizards, they'd cross the room. If it wasn't, well, whoever it was would surely answer to Voldemort tomorrow for disturbing her sleep. After how he'd responded to Amycus and Nott, she doubted any of the other Death Eaters would be stupid enough to try and harm her.

That was when she heard the footfalls. Slow, purposeful, she thought. They crossed from—well, she'd guessed correctly—the doorway of her quarters, making a bee-line for her bedside.

She didn't think she recognized the cadence of these steps. So, if it wasn't Orias, Antonin, or Thorfinn being so bold . . . well, she thought she'd better brace for someone's stupidity right now.

Then, she felt the weight of her observer press into the mattress as they took a seat on the side of her bed. They really _were_ bold!

Frowning, she said in a sleepy tumble of monotone words, "Whoever you are, you'd better leave now. If I tell the Dark Lord one of you was in my quarters in the middle of the night, he'll be very unhappy."

She heard a chuckling at that. Oddly enough, it was a pleasant sound, deep and rich. And wholly unfamiliar.

"You are correct. Were your visitor anyone _but_ me, I'd be most furious over this transgression, Mudblood."

Unable to hold her façade against the wave of shock that crashed through her, Hermione's eyes snapped open. Leaning over her, she saw the face from those old photographs. Those painfully beautiful features stared back at her, eyes so blue they glimmered in the dark.

She bolted upright, unable to pull her panicked gaze from his. "I . . . I don't . . . ." She tried again, feeling tears that were a mix of fear and confusion crowd her throat. "I don't understand."

"What's to understand?" Oh, he did relish the way her eyes seemed to flash wider, still, as he lifted his hand to trace her lips with the tips of his fingers. He inhaled, a sharp hissing sound, at the sensation of her breath dancing across his skin. "I got tired of waiting for you to come back to life."

His reaction to her hadn't gone unnoticed, but she kept herself still. No matter what he looked like, she knew what he really was, and of what he was truly capable.

"But how?"

He watched her lips as she spoke. Shaking his head, he said with a sigh, "As you well know, when one is determined, they will always find a way. And I am nothing if not determined to have what is mine."

"I'm . . . I'm not yours." She didn't know how she found her voice. He'd restored himself like this? How much power had that taken? How had he . . . ?

The Dark Lord smirked at her whispered declaration. "My sweet little Mudblood, you've been mine since the moment I won the War, remember? I just didn't claim you yet, because you and I both knew there was a piece missing. A piece I glimpsed that day you found those old photographs."

The witch tried to think clearly. She tried to sort the confused jumble of words in her head, but nothing seemed to make sense. She didn't even know magic like this was possible!

"But . . . but I'm not—"

He sank his fingers into her hair and pulled back her head. The gasp she uttered at the action brought a smile to his lips. There was something so delicious in the way she shivered from something so simple that this, alone, had him in danger of becoming hard. Nearly as though his body had forgotten, already, that he'd had release just a short while ago thanks to Alecto's assistance.

Dipping his head, he raked his teeth along the side of her throat just below her ear. She shivered, again, and he knew the moan she uttered wasn't something she'd _meant_ to let slip out.

Oh, he was going to have fun convincing her to let what her body wanted override what her mind dictated. She was far too hung up on those pesky ideals of right and wrong as it was.

Pulling back, he climbed to his feet. Before she could respond, he slid his hand around her arm and dragged her up to stand.

As he started walking from the room, pulling her along behind him in her nightdress, she snapped back to her senses. "Where are you taking me?" she demanded as she tried to tug out of his grasp.

Voldemort chuckled, glancing back at her over his shoulder as they started through the library. "As I said, _there_ you are—whole, again. Just as I wanted you . . . ."

She spoke through clenched teeth as she tried again. "Where are you—?"

"I should think that's obvious, Mudblood. You are mine to do with as I please, remember?" He halted, midstride and spun to face her. The suddenness of the motion had her body flush against his as he leaned down to murmur in her ear. "I _was_ going to torture you, endlessly. Wait until you started to heal and then do it all over again, until your mind shattered from the agony. But then . . . but then I got this form back. And I realized what a waste that would be."

He pulled back, holding her gaze as he went on. "I know now what I've been missing. Touch? It's such an exquisitely simple thing, but you don't realize that until the ability to feel it has been stripped from you. Now that I recall what it feels like, it's created a longing in me, Mudblood. A longing that you _will_ slake, whenever I have need."

She shook her head, disgust pinching her features. "You mean to rape me?!"

He threw back his head in another of those rich, deep chuckles of his. "Oh, oh you are innocent, aren't you? No, no. Where would the challenge, or the fun, be in that?"

All right, so now she was even more confused. "I don't under—"

Again, he stopped, the sudden halt cutting short her words. Sooner than she could react, he clamped a rough hand between her thighs through her nightdress—here, right in the middle of a castle corridor!

When she let out a shuddering breath, trembling against his sweetly unforgiving fingers, he grinned.

"I mean to make you _want_ to relieve that longing."

They were off again, the Dark Lord tugging a dazed Hermione along behind him through the nighttime quiet of Hogwarts. At first she was angry, then she was disgusted. Now, she was simply afraid.

Afraid, because she was forced to wonder if he could actually make that happen.

* * *

At last reaching the hidden entry point, they looked around at each other as they waited for the bloody thing to open. Thorfinn stepped back and gestured downward. "Age before beauty," he said with a grin.

Their shoulders slumping, both Antonin and Orias scowled at the younger Death Eater. "Smarmy little shit," the blond mountain of a wizard muttered as he dropped down into the Chamber.

Antonin, however, narrowed his dark eyes at Thorfinn as he stepped toward the opening. "Or, as I like to think of it, experience before, well . . . I'll let you fill in the blank."

Minutes later as the three emerged in the heart of the Chamber, Thorfinn shielded his face with the sleeve of his robes. "Sloughed off snake skin aside, what is that smell?"

Orias and Antonin winced as they each glanced about. Thorfinn wasn't old enough to recall the strongest scent permeating the vast, damp room, but he and Antonin recognized it well.

"Burnt parchment . . . ."

"Amongst other things," Antonin tacked on with a disgusted crinkling of his nose. "But not anything unfamiliar in terms of what a body goes through when one is exsanguinated . . . _or_ skinned alive. Let's go find out which one, shall we?"

"Burnt parchment?" Thorfinn didn't want to think about the other conditions they'd find about the corpses now that Antonin had explained it so clearly. "That'd have to be the books he got the ritual from, wouldn't it? He destroyed them?"

Orias frowned, his nostrils flaring as he shook his head. "Something he made us do during the First War. If we came across any bit of magic he didn't already know, he learned it, then had us burn the evidence, so no one else could learn it."

"Sounds stupid. Why didn't you just hide them?"

Antonin clenched his teeth as he halted and pivoted on his heel to face Thorfinn. "Gee, I don't know, Rowle! Perhaps because our leader is a mind-reading lunatic who'd flay us alive if he found out we'd betrayed him like that?"

"Point taken, calm your tits!"

Orias, who'd kept walking toward the pillars, rounded the great stone columns and simply halted. Gaping up at whatever was on the other side, he said, "Well . . . speaking of being flayed alive . . . ."

Antonin rushed over, but Thorfinn shook his head. Holding up his hands, the younger man said, "I think I'm good over here, thanks."

The dark-haired wizard actually had to look away from the sight of the mangled bodies, left chained against the other side of the pillars. And _he_ was the one with experience in torture. Orias, on the other hand, couldn't seem to pull his gaze away. Morbid fascination was a hell of a thing that way, he supposed.

"I can't believe he did this to them for mouthing off to her."

Orias shook his head at Antonin's words. "No. This wasn't for that. This was merely a matter of good timing."

"Sorry, what about this is 'good' again?" Thorfinn asked with a wince. He _really_ didn't want to go over there.

"I didn't actually mean 'good,' you half-wit. I meant _convenient_ for the Dark Lord. He already had them in the dungeons. Then, he realized he'd need an excessive amount of blood for his ritual . . . there they were. No one would miss them, yet, because as far as we were all aware, they were receiving punishment for disobedience, anyway."

Antonin sighed. He'd considered taking the bodies down for a few moments, there, but no. They could leave no evidence that they'd been down here. He dropped the hand that had been reaching for his wand to his side and stepped away from the corpses.

"All right," he said with a shrug. "Who wants to be the one to tell Alecto about her brother?"

Just as a round of finger-pointing started, Thorfinn seemed to freeze in place, entirely.

"Wait . . . ." When the other two turned their attention on him, he continued. "If he destroys the books or scrolls so no one else can learn it, doesn't that also mean no one can learn how to counter that magic?"

"Well, yeah, o' course it . . . ." The other blond wizard frowned. Thorfinn Rowle was far from stupid; he wouldn't ask a question like this unless it served a purpose.

Orias cast his gaze toward the ceiling as Antonin's face fell. Of _course_ that's what it meant, they simply hadn't applied it to their current situation. Hadn't thought of it, at all, in context to this. Whatever the Dark Lord had done was irreversible.

And none of them had any idea what that could mean.

"Shit," the pair of older wizards said in unison.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Antonin ducked as he hurried out of Alecto's quarters, the book hurled in his direction just missing his head.

There was a distinct feminine bellowing noise from the other side of the entryway as the door slammed shut behind him. Blinking rapidly a few times, he only darted his gaze about as he seemed to check that he was still breathing.

Orias and Thorfinn each frowned before exchanging a glance. "So," the younger one said in a feigned jovial tone, "I'm assuming she didn't take the news about her brother well?"

Uttering an oddly growl-like sound, Antonin pinned him with a glare. "The news about her brother? Not as bad as you'd think. Being told she couldn't react or let on at all that she knows how he died—or even that he's dead, to start with—given how we came across that information? Yeah . . . . Seems she doesn't fancy the idea of 'playing nice' even if she understands the necessity for it."

"Doesn't fancy the idea?" Orias echoed with a smirk as he picked up the book the witch had thrown. "You don't say?"

All three seemed to have the same idea at once as they stared at the book clutched in Orias' hand. "C'mon, we need to warn Hermione."

"Wait!" Thorfinn said as Orias' words prompted the two older wizards to start down the corridor.

Both Antonin and Orias halted, pivoting to face Thorfinn. "What?" they demanded in unison.

Holding up his hands, Thorfinn backpedaled a step. "All right, that was mildly terrifying."

Orias rolled his eyes as Antonin's shoulders drooped. "Wait for what?" the dark-haired man said in a forcibly calmed voice . . . through clenched teeth.

Thorfinn only stared at him for a moment, his brows pinching together before he nodded. "We can't all go rushing to the library. One of us going over there at this hour might not raise suspicions enough to get back to the Dark Lord, but all _three_ of us rushing there in the middle of the night?"

"I'll go," Orias said, as though it was the obvious answer.

"You?" Antonin's brows shot up as he scoffed.

Frowning, Orias shook his head at the question. "Why not me?"

Stepping to place himself beside Thorfinn, both towering figures, themselves, but still of . . . lesser stature than Orias Mulciber, he clarified, "You'll forgive me for saying so, but you're not exactly the figure of stealth and subtlety."

Orias scowled, but could think of nothing to rebut the simple truth of the other man's statement.

Nodding as he rolled his eyes at no one in particular, Thorfinn sighed. "It should be me."

"What?" The taller of the two blond wizards didn't seem to like that idea very much.

"Actually, he's right."

Orias pinned Antonin with a look of disbelief. "What?" he asked, again.

Thorfinn turned his attention on Antonin, as well, his brows drawing up ever so slightly. He tried to keep the corners of his mouth from quirking upward, just a bit, and failed, as he waited for elaboration, himself.

Now it was Antonin's turn to scowl as he met Thorfinn's gaze and shook his head. "He may be a bit of a flailing beast in combat, but he can actually be surprisingly sneaky when he's trying."

His shoulders slumping as he wasn't sure whether to feel praised for the 'sneaky' part of the comment, or insulted for being called a flailing beast, Thorfinn spread his hands. "Can't ever _just_ say something complimentary, can you?"

Antonin rolled his eyes. "Really, Rowle? I hardly think this is the time to—"

"Holy Christ! How do you to work so well together when you bicker like an old married couple?"

Antonin and Thorfinn both turned angry expressions on Orias. But he shook his head in response, thundering on before either of them could answer. "Well, move it Rowle. The library's not going to come to you!"

Raising his fist, Thorfinn pointed one finger toward Mulciber. "I swear if you weren't the only person in this castle bigger than me . . . ."

The younger wizard let his words hang in the air as he turned and started down the corridor.

With a thoughtful frown as they watched him depart, Antonin said, "You know, some day he's probably going to kill both of us."

"Eh." Orias nodded as he folded his arms across his chest. "If he manages, I think I'd be strangely proud of him. Well, dead, sure, but proud."

* * *

Thorfinn spotted them as they turned a corner in his direction. Swallowing hard and backpedaling, he managed to duck into the nearest corridor at his back. The glimpse was so quick, he had to peek around the bend in the wall to get another look before he could confirm what he _thought_ he'd seen.

The newly revitalized Dark Lord was storming down the passageway dragging Hermione along in nothing but a nightdress. Her brown eyes were wide in a mix of fear and anger as she tried, visibly, to dig in her heels with every other step. Poor thing was going to have bloodied soles by the time they reached their destination from repeatedly dashing her bare feet against the stone tiles.

Thorfinn shook his head at himself as he backpedaled a step, pressing into the shadows of the corridor as they moved past him. She was showing emotion . . . that wasn't good. Clearly Voldemort had witnessed for himself that she was no longer a lifeless doll; it was what he'd been waiting for, after all. And the direction they seemed headed was even worse.

Swallowing hard, he slipped along in their wake, needing to be certain of where the Dark Lord was taking her.

Along corridors and up staircases they went until Thorfinn saw his fear—and, indeed, what he knew would also have also Mulciber and Dolohov's fears, as well, were they in his place—confirmed. Voldemort was pulling her into the Headmaster's quarters.

The door slammed shut behind them and the sound of the bolt sliding into place on the other side was absolutely deafening in Thorfinn's ears. Forcing down a sudden sense of revulsion, he dropped his gaze to the floor. In the semi-darkness of the corridor, he'd not noticed before, but he'd been right.

Lowering to one knee, he touched his fingers into one of the dark, slick patches before him on the stones. Warm . . . crimson . . . . She was literally fighting so hard against whatever awaited her that she'd torn up her own feet.

Struck with a sudden moment of bravery and quick thinking, Thorfinn bounded up to the door and knocked. "My Lord! Apologies for troubling you at this late hour, but—"

"What is the meaning of this, Rowle!" The Dark Lord's voice was pure fury from the other side of the door.

"We fear students may have gone into the Chamber, My Lord! I heard what sounded like someone trying to get into the tunnels—"

The sound of the bolt sliding back out cut him off and the door flew open. "What?!"

Thorfinn shrugged and immediately dropped down kneel before the elder wizard. "I'm sorry, My Lord. I only know what I heard and you've forbidden us from entering there. Would you like me to—?"

"No!" Just as fast as the snapped word left his lips, Voldemort rolled his shoulders back and stood straight, making a visible effort to regain his composure. "I shall investigate this myself."

Stepping out into the corridor, he slammed the door shut behind him. Tapping the wood over his shoulder with his wand, the bolt slid down, once more.

"You are to guard this door as though your life depends on it." Leaning down, he lifted Thorfinn's chin with the tip of the Elder Wand. "Because it _does_."

With that, the Dark Lord was moving down the corridor on swift, determined footfalls. Thorfinn had to remind himself to breathe a few times before he managed to at last draw in a shivering breath. Their leader had only gotten _more_ terrifying. Oh, goodie!

Reassuring himself that they'd not disturbed anything, nor left any thing that might point to the three of them as being the culprits behind any recent trespassing in the Chamber, Thorfinn climbed to his feet.

"Thorfinn?"

God, she sounded like she was crying! "Sunshine?" He drew his wand. "Are you okay? Has he hurt you? _Alohomora_."

The door unlocked at his command and he eased it open, afraid of hitting her if she came near and he opened it too fast. Stepping inside, he immediately directed his attention to the bed. She was seated on the very end, looking impossibly small as she huddled there.

"No, he . . . he hasn't," she said, her voice thick and broken-sounding, even as she watched him hurrying to her.

He only meant to check on her, only meant to see how badly she'd injured herself. Yet, somehow, he'd scooped her into his arms to hold her tight against his chest.

For a few warm, wonderful, peaceful seconds, she let herself cry wrapped in the safety of his embrace. Pulling back just as fast, she lifted her head to meet his gaze.

She shook her head, speaking as he wiped his hands over her cheeks to dry her tears. "You're so stupid. He's really going to kill you for lying to him!"

"It wasn't really a lie, more of a . . . twisting of factual events." Tracing her lips with a gentle fingertip, he stole a kiss. "I'm so sorry we can't get you out of this. We'll think of something, though."

Hermione nodded back toward the foot of the bed. Though he moved with reluctance, he set her back down on the edge of the mattress. "He's not going to harm me, at least not immediately. No, he doesn't want that, not anymore."

"So what does he . . . ?" Thorfinn's voice trailed off at the eloquent look she shot him. "Oh. _Oh_!"

"I think getting his, um, his flesh back, so to speak, has warped how he sees things—warped how he _feels_ about things, literally. He wants me to be his plaything, but his _willing_ plaything. I think before when he wanted to 'break' me, even he wasn't quite certain what he meant by that, or how. Now he sees a way."

"That actually makes a terrifying amount of sense with what he did to Alecto," he said as he hunkered down on the floor to examine the soles of her battered feet. "Oh, Sunshine. You've made a right mess of yourself."

Now that he said it, she could no longer ignore the sting of broken skin. The young woman winced, shifting uncomfortably in place. "What do you mean? What he did to Alecto?"

His brows pinching together in a pained expression, Thorfinn looked around for something to comfort her wounded skin. "After he did this to himself. He made Alecto stay behind when the ritual was done and . . . made her a deal to protect someone if she were to, well . . . ." He tapped at his lips in explanation.

Hermione's eyes shot wide. She couldn't wrap her mind around the mental image of such a thing, nor the notion of Voldemort making someone—anyone—a deal.

"That's it, though, isn't it?" she said abruptly. "He's been a shell all this time. He's been without normal, feeling, touching human skin for so long it's actually overriding the way he thinks."

"I see the wheels turning, Sunshine, and I don't think I like where this is going."

"Okay, I know none of the three of you are going to be pleased with the idea of me playing the Dark Lord's sex-kitten, believe me, neither am I." She crinkled the bridge of her nose in distaste and shook her head before going on. "And I'm not _actually_ suggesting that. Just that knowing this is an advantage. Maybe if I play along, let him 'break my will' easily—as far as he knows, no one's touched me, either, since War's End—it'll distract him long enough for us to come up with something."

"Something like . . . ?"

They exchanged a horrified look as they heard footsteps echoing down the corridor in their direction. There was no time for Thorfinn to exit the room and lock the door without the Dark Lord hearing it.

"Like _Romeo and Juliet_ ," she whispered, eyeing him curiously as he continued examining her feet. He had to have some idea about how to explain his presence inside the room.

"What?"

"Not now, just think back on what I told you about it when you've got the chance." The last word fell from her lips, barely a thread of sound, as the Dark Lord stepped through the doorway.

"What is the meaning of this?!"

Immediately turning in his already lowered position, Thorfinn kept his gaze on the floor, his entire countenance contrite. "I'm sorry, My Lord. I heard her crying and thought she was trying to hurt herself. I believed you would want me to stop her."

Glimpsing the stains of crimson on Thorfinn's fingers, and then glancing to her bloodied feet, Voldemort frowned. "How did you injure yourself?"

"I cut my feet on the stone floor. I simply hadn't noticed the pain until I was alone. I suppose that's when he heard me."

With a nod, Voldemort said, "I will deal with my Mudblood's injuries, Thorfinn. And tomorrow, see to it the Chamber's entrance is sealed, for _good_. I no longer have need of that place."

"Of course. Goodnight, My Lord." Thorfinn rose to his feet before giving a deep bow and exiting the room. As he turned to pull the door closed behind him, he cast one last, quick glance into the room.

Hermione met his gaze as the Dark Lord turned away, summoning things to him with a flick of his wand. She offered a quick nod and forced a tiny smile just before the door close between them.

Thorfinn pressed his forehead against the wood and closed his eyes. She was safe . . . the Dark Lord, strangely, had no plans to hurt her.

Yet there was a sick rippling in the pit of Thorfinn's stomach as he thought over the way Voldemort had referred to her as _his_ Mudblood.


	11. Chapter 11

I have started my own mini-FB group for dark-themed fics ( _Dark Hearts, Dark Arts_ ).For those interested, I have posted the link on my FFN Profile Page.

* * *

 **Chapter Eleven**

Hermione watched in a mix of disbelief and fear as he knelt before her, setting down a dish of water with a washcloth. His fingers were surprisingly gentle as they slid around her ankle to lift her foot—that surprising gentleness being part of what caused her fear.

Shaking his head at the torn skin, he wrung out the cloth and carefully dabbed away the blood.

She winced, shivering at the sensation. After a moment, though, as he continued delicately working the stinging flesh with the warm, damp fabric, she found her eyes drifting closed.

Voldemort snapped his gaze up to lock on her face. His eyes narrowing in an appraising look, he watched the shift in her expression as he cleaned her wounds. Now, _this_ was interesting.

She didn't even appear to notice that the rhythm of her breathing had changed, or that the tension had left her limbs. Rather than the stiff, angry and frightened creature he'd dragged in here, she was now all but slumped before him, her fingers curling into fists and uncurling again and again in the bedcovers on either side of her.

He added a bit more pressure to the delicate sweeps of the cloth across her broken skin. How rewarding, the way she gasped and shivered. Even more so to note the way the points of her breasts had tightened, pressing against her nightdress.

Very interesting.

Smirking, and just as quickly wiping the mirthful expression from his face, he put down the wash cloth and reached out. Crooking his finger under her chin, he lifted her head. "Open your eyes, Mudblood."

His voice snapped her back to reality. The pleasant sting that had taken her away from her senses, that had triggered that sweet ache between her thighs, causing her heart to race and her skin to tingle, had been _his_ doing.

Well, she was aware that this moment played into what she'd told Thorfinn was their only option for a plan right now—that she let him think he was breaking her will. Only, she wasn't so sure how long it would be simply letting him think it. If he had realized what pain did to her, how long before his breaking of her will was a reality?

Holding her gaze, he dropped his hand from her chin and reached for the washcloth once more. Switching to her other foot, he wiped at the blood, pressing harder, now.

Even as she stared back at him, trying to keep her expression schooled and her reaction in check, she couldn't help a tremor that wracked her body as the pain sent another sweet pulse through her.

He slid the fingers from around her ankle up along her leg to cup her calf. Her skin was so deliciously soft against his that he nearly forgot himself a moment.

Shifting closer, he rose up on his knees. Oh, the look of shock in her eyes, battling the daze trying to take over, was exquisite! He moved nearer, still, until he was right before her. Until they could feel one another's breath ghosting over their lips.

Her thoughts were so muddled just now. Her exhaustion, her confusion, the lateness of the hour, literally everything she'd been through these past few weeks with her protectors, alone . . . . She didn't even know what she was thinking at this moment.

This close, he watched her, his gaze unblinking as he once more pressed against her torn skin.

As before, her eyes drifted closed and her breath came up short. Best of all? She didn't seem to notice the way she leaned toward him, her lips parted.

Close enough that when he spoke, his mouth brushed against hers. "I think you should rest now, and in the morning, I'll bring you to Narcissa to have these wounds treated properly."

And then he moved back, placing her leg down as though nothing had happened.

Her eyes snapping open, she gaped at him as he turned his attention to the dish and cloth and climbed to his feet. A shiver that had nothing to do with pain or pleasure tore through her as she realized what she'd almost prompted to happen just now.

It was happening. And faster than she'd thought possible—faster than she'd thought she'd _allow_ to happen. He was breaking her, after all.

Swallowing hard, she was not even aware her eyes had watered until a tear rolled down her cheek.

Seeming completely oblivious to her struggle, he circled the room, dimming the lanterns. Returning to the bed, he moved past her, pulling back the covers.

Though she didn't turn to watch him, she was distinctly aware of him removing his robes and dropping them carefully aside. Unable to stop herself, she moved ever so slightly to glance over her shoulder.

And just as fast she whipped back around. He was _completely_ bare as he climbed into bed and pulled the covers over himself. She hated that that quick glimpse she'd caught of him was so breathtaking.

Folding one thickly-muscled arm behind his head, he closed his eyes. "As I said, Mudblood, you need to rest."

Struggling to find her voice, she managed, "I . . . I'm not—"

"Come here, _now_."

She thought her heart would stop at the command. But then, he'd only spoken it. He was the leader of Wizarding Britain, wielder of the Elder Wand. If he wanted to force her compliance, he could, more easily than she even wanted to think about.

In his mind, speaking the words rather than simply making her follow his command with a flick of his wand was probably a courtesy. One he would not have bothered showing any of his followers.

This was her reality. This circumstance right now. Her brow furrowing, she nodded, though her movements were reluctant as she turned and crawled across the bed and under the covers to lay opposite him.

Though he didn't open his eyes, he did shake his head and sigh. Reaching out with his free arm, he took hold of her wrist. Sooner than she could react, he'd pulled her across the bed. She found herself pressed flush against his side as he curled his arm around her holding her to him.

She hated the feel of his solid, naked form against hers. Hated that he was warm, hated that this was actually comfortable.

No matter what happened in the days to come, nor if Orias, Thorfinn, and Antonin might be able to decipher her cryptic comment about a Shakespearean tragedy, this moment was a microcosm of what her life had become. She was Voldemort's trophy, and no matter how she'd fought it, he had just shown her how easily he could make her forget who and what he was.

Swallowing hard, she closed her eyes, trying to imprint on her memory how much she _loathed_ the feel of his chest beneath her cheek.

* * *

Somehow, she'd managed to fall asleep. Yet, her fitful slumber was disturbed only an hour or two in.

The Dark wizard wrapped around her shook violently. At first, she didn't know what was happening, nor even what to do. She tried to wrench herself out of his embrace, but it seemed even in slumber, his arm around her was locked in place.

Shuddering, he screamed behind clenched teeth, though he didn't once wake. He was either in pain, or having a nightmare. Whatever the source, she knew she didn't want to ponder what sort of dreams could terrify the Dark Lord of Wizarding Britain.

She considered waking him for a moment, but in his current state, and his Elder Wand hidden somewhere near him—God, if only she knew where—she thought perhaps it was wisest _not_ to be the thing that startled him awake.

Hermione watched him for several minutes in the dim light of the room. Watched until the crease in his forehead smoothed and the tension in his muscles—save for the arm locked around her, of bloody course—drained away.

When he was settled back into peaceful slumber, she laid her head back down, but kept her gaze locked on his face. Forcing a gulp down her throat, she tried to ignore the battering of horrid pictures against her mind's eye as she unwillingly imagined just what it could be that _he_ would so fear.

* * *

" _Romeo and Juliet_?" Antonin echoed the title, shaking his head.

By the time Thorfinn had returned to their shared quarters, the other two Death Eaters had been asleep—though that had seemed a grudging inevitability, as they'd both dozed off sitting up, clearly waiting for his return. As much as he'd hated to admit it, there was nothing to be done at that moment, and he'd been rather exhausted himself, so he'd taken the opportunity to get some rest, as well, knowing that the morning would be a much better time to think, anyway.

"I don't know what she meant by it!" the younger wizard insisted in a harsh whisper as they made their way down the corridor toward the Great Hall for breakfast. "She only told me . . . ."

Orias halted midstride at the way the other blond man's voice trailed off. "Only told you what?"

His brow furrowing, Thorfinn said in a hollow tone. "The girl, Juliet . . . she poisons herself."

Both Orias' and Antonin's brows shot up at that.

"Oh." Orias scowled, shaking his head. "She'd better not be thinking of offing herself!"

Thorfinn held up his hands. "No, no. Um, it wasn't real poison. Blast it, I can't remember it all, but it had to do with faking her death."

Antonin arched an eyebrow as Orias nodded in thought.

"I don't quite know how or when we can pull _that_ off," Antonin said with a nod of his own, "but I do believe it can be arranged."

* * *

Again, her exhaustion had taken control, permitting sleep to overtake her at some point after Voldemort's disturbing, mysterious nightmare. She didn't know what she'd dreamed herself, but she became aware of sweet, tingling sensations. Became aware of the delectable impression of fingers and lips dragging over her skin.

What a pleasant imagining after the horror of the night she'd had.

She was turned onto her back, the hem of her nightdress pushed up to bare her hips and the straps pulled down, revealing her breasts to warm, hungry kisses. Aware of her knickers—still such a new addition to her wardrobe—being slipped down over her legs, she shifted to assist in their removal.

Those kisses, the flicking, teasing tongue and scraping of teeth, dragged downward. Hermione felt her legs being parted, a ravenous mouth burying itself between her thighs.

That flicking, teasing tongue swirled and stroked. That ravenous mouth suckled and uttered pained groans when she shivered and rocked beneath it.

The blissful feel of her body tensing seemed just what she needed in this moment. Just what would distract her from her awful waking life.

She reached down, curling her fingers into soft, thick hair. Gripping tight, she held that wonderful mouth tighter to her, still, as she came, shuddering and whimpering with her release.

That voice let out a sound of satisfaction at her eager response.

As her orgasm ebbed, and the tension in her drifted away, she let her eyes open. And, with her eyes opening, the headmaster's quarters swam into focus around her.

This hadn't been a dream!

Looking down her body, she saw her nightdress bunched around her midsection. Her arms stretched down, fingers gripped into dark, tumbling curls. She saw him there, laying between her parted legs, his mouth pressed firmly against her as he nursed her through the aftershocks of her orgasm.

Those newly-blue eyes opened, locking on her shocked face. Smiling against her, he did her the courtesy of waiting until her body had stilled completely beneath the workings of his tongue before he raised his head.

"Good morning, Mudblood."

Her brow furrowing, she scrambled backward, all but plastering herself against the headboard and out of his reach. "What the bloody hell was that? How dare you!"

Voldemort actually chuckled at that, seeming not to care that he sat there watching her without a stich of fabric on him. "How dare I, _what_ , exactly?"

Hermione shook her head, gesturing emphatically toward where she'd just been laying. "'What, exactly?' _That!_ Just . . . just . . . feasting on me as though you'd been invited to!"

His gaze darted about before he realized the source of her confusion. A half-smile curving his unfortunately beautiful lips, he asked, "You really do not recall, do you?"

Her expression fell. "Don't recall what?"

"You _did_ invite me."

Once more shaking her head, she stared back at him, the confusion in her eyes only increasing at his words. "What?"

"My, my. This is very interesting. You truly don't remember." With another of those rich chuckles of his, he sat back on his heels, completely shameless, as he stroked his chiseled jaw. "Forgive the vulgar phrasing, but I awoke to your hand wrapped around my cock."

The color drained from her face. "My hand around your—"

"And stroking. You, my sweet Mudblood, worked me until I spent myself all over the bedclothes." He watched her face intently as he spoke, looking for some spark of recognition.

When she could come up with no response—had she been dreaming she was curled up with one of her wizards and somehow acted it out on him?—she only continued to gape at him. Was that even what had happened?

What if she hadn't been dreaming of anyone? What if she'd simply acted from some half-asleep state?

"Very interesting," he said, again, his smile broadening. "If you did that without truly being aware of your actions . . . what does it say about what you _really_ want?"


	12. Chapter 12

**Tried really hard to get this chapter ready to post *today*, because not only is it the 2 year anniversary of this fic (yes, 12 chapter in 24 months, I can see why you lot hate me), it's also MY BIRTHDAY! Happy reading, and have a great weekend, loves!**

* * *

 **Chapter Twelve**

She wished she could be numb, again. Numb and empty and hollow, the only relief from her own lifelessness that bittersweet sting of pain when she dragged the edge of a blade across her skin. When she watched the incision she'd made—her choice, her hand holding the blade, an action that, unlike anything else in her life, _she_ was in sole control of—bleed, dripping perfect, almost hypnotic trails of crimson down her arm.

How sad that the new state of her life had become something that made her wish she was still in a place where she'd sought comfort by inflicting self-harm.

As she trailed along behind him down the corridor, she found she couldn't lift her gaze from the toes of the slippers he'd _graciously_ borrowed from one of the other witches for her. Narcissa had absolute fits about the tears across the soles of Hermione's feet as she examined the wounds and carefully re-cleaned and dressed them. Though the blonde witch was still unwillingly mute, as she worked her lips moved rapid fire in what would likely be a string of _very_ unladylike words if she had a voice.

When Voldemort had simply explained away Hermione's injuries as her own clumsiness, with an air as though it was a courtesy for him to provide a reason at all, Narcissa answered with a glare. A glare at the floor, since she so feared what he might do if she showed him how displeased she was with him directly, but _still_ . . . . Hermione was certain if that floor had feelings, it would've wanted to curl up and die from how withering the elder witch's look had been in that moment.

Hermione wondered if she should bother to tell him that his brushoff of the resident medi-witch's concern made him sound like he was covering for being an abusive partner. Though, with the way he'd manipulated her feelings and taken advantage of her disorientation that morning, she was rather certain that wasn't far from the truth.

Still, she felt wretched. Even acknowledging how sly he'd been, how clever, how responsible for the state she was in in the first bloody place, she couldn't ignore her own actions, or her own _re_ actions to him.

She felt sick at the very thought of looking across the dais to meet the gaze of any of her wizards, right now. Sick at the idea of what they'd think if they knew how weak she'd been, letting _him_ touch her like that!

Worse, her own body was betraying her. As sick as she felt in her soul over it, recalling what she'd woken up to this morning—the feel of his mouth between her thighs, of his fingers trailing her skin—sent a sweet, aching shiver through her. Good Lord, she was _vile_!

Voldemort, oblivious to her inner turmoil, was ecstatic. She could tell, somehow, like some energy was ebbing off of him. Once he stepped into the Great Hall, once he made his way to the dais and took the Headmaster's seat, the students would realize what had happened. They'd see he'd tapped into some power that should not be and soon enough, word would reach their families and filter out into the rest of Wizarding Britain, and the question of just how strong he actually was would be raised anew.

Just how much was he truly capable of; how likely was it that they'd _ever_ find a way out from under his thumb if he could do _this_?

As he stepped through the doors ahead of her, Hermione could hear the way the conversations of the students—so much less boisterous than they'd been before the horrors of the War—hushed as they watched this unfamiliar man enter the room and approach the dais. She knew they couldn't help but be in awe of the mysterious stranger, for whatever else he was, his surface appearance was painfully beautiful.

It wasn't until she entered, trailing behind him with her head down and her hands clasped before her, that they made the connection about who he was. Their disbelief evidenced itself in how that silence continued, allowing his footfalls to echo through the grand chamber as he walked along, his gaze fixed straight ahead, but she was sure a grin was curving his lips.

That eerie quiet did not break until Voldemort took his seat, and she settled in hers at his side. This was what they'd been waiting for—this simple step that confirmed his identity for them. And then the students all broke into murmured conversation once more. Just as with her wizards, she couldn't bring herself to lift her attention to any of the students.

She could only imagine what sort of looks were flicking across her friends' features at the realization of what Voldemort had accomplished.

The witch didn't realize just how much of a daze she was in until she glanced to her untouched plate and found it already covered in food. Her hands were still in her lap, so how had . . . ? The realization that Voldemort had _actually_ served her food set off a chill in the pit of her stomach. He never lifted a finger to do such things before. Tending her wounds last night . . . seeing to her meal this morning . . . .

Was he . . . actually _changing_?

When several minutes passed and she had yet to reach for her utensils, he set down his own and turned to regard her. "Are you not hungry?"

Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but nothing would come out. Shaking her head, she cleared her throat and tried again. "Not really, um . . . . I'm still in a good deal of pain. Perhaps I could go back to Narcissa for something to help?"

He exhaled a sharp, thoughtful breath through his nostrils. "Very well." However, if she were hoping the changes in him might mean she would be permitted to wander the corridors unescorted, those hopes were dashed with his next words. "Dolohov? Escort my Mudblood to the hospital wing."

Instantly she felt her eyes well with unshed tears. Holding in a shivering sigh, she forced herself to look up at the three of them. Orias was staring down at his plate as though it had murdered his family, Thorfinn toyed with his food as he tried to keep his gaze from wandering to her, but every now and again, he failed, and Antonin simply watched the Dark Lord, his brows high on his forehead as though he'd misunderstood.

Voldemort repeated himself, his tone short, as he went back to his own breakfast.

Nodding, Antonin set down his fork and stood, rounding his fellow Death Eaters to stand at her shoulder in wait. As she pushed back her chair to stand, Voldemort's free hand slipped around her elbow and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

He leaned close, pressing his mouth to the crook of her neck in a kiss that was both deliberate, and visibly possessive. When he pulled back, he only arched a brow at her look of shock.

Lifting his hand to stroke the pad of his thumb along her bottom lip—she was painfully aware that once more a hush had fallen over the entirety of the Hall at the unexpected display—he smirked. "You realize you are going to be by my side for a very long time. You should get used to everyone who lays eyes upon you knowing you are _mine_."

Swallowing hard, she forced herself not to respond—fear told her to nod in agreement, while her anger and current pool of loathing and hatred for herself made her want to shake her head, which might only anger him. Instead, she waited in silence for him to relinquish his hold on her and once again return to his meal.

Rising from her seat, she turned and let Antonin guide her from the table. Yet, she could not help herself from casting a fleeting look at the other two left behind. Thorfinn stared after her in shock, clearly wondering what had gone on in the headmaster's quarters after he'd been forced to leave them alone last night. Orias was playing a far more dangerous game.

He was glaring openly at the Dark Lord. His hands were atop the table, fingers gripped into fists so tight it was a wonder he wasn't making himself bleed.

The notion of what could happen if Voldemort caught Orias looking at him like that slammed her heart against her ribs. Antonin caught her fearful expression, but shielded her face from view with a seemingly-oblivious gesture of covering her shoulders with his arm to guide her along.

"Don't worry," he murmured, briefly glancing back, himself, to see that Alecto had caught Orias' angry visage, and its direction. To see how she kicked him under the table, stealing his attention and hissing a whispered warning. Schooling his features, the blond mountain dropped his gaze back to his food. "Strange as it sounds, we've got friends."

She took small comfort in that, as she was perfectly aware of how Voldemort's influence could turn people against each other.

When they were out in the corridor, she remained silent. Antonin took the hint, waiting for her to be the one to speak. It was not until they were nearly to the hospital wing's doors, far enough from the Great Hall that even with the main floor so empty, their voices would not carry unless they shouted, that she stopped, letting out a shuddering breath as she sagged against the wall beside her.

Immediately he moved to hold her steady. "Hermione, are you—?"

"Don't ask me if I'm okay, Dolohov, please don't ask me if I'm okay," her words tumbled out in trembling whisper as she shook her head. "It's awful. _I'm_ awful. I can't even . . . ."

"Did he hurt you?"

God, the anger in his voice was comforting. But it was a comfort she didn't feel worthy of. "No, no, he didn't. That's the worst part."

Scanning the area to assure they were alone, he scooped her into his arms and carried her into a darkened corner, someplace they would not be noticed unless one knew precisely where to look. He settled on the stone floor, cradling her in his lap.

She gaped up at him, her chestnut eyes wide and flooded with unshed tears.

"Tell me what happened."

Shaking her head, she covered her mouth with her hands a moment. "I don't want to talk about it. I don't think I can. But he . . . he was gentle, and that made it all _worse_ than if he'd hurt me."

Antonin's brow furrowed as he watched the pain in her expression. "I don't understand."

Hermione sniffled, frowning. In need of something to distract her as she spoke, she reached up, tangling her fingers in the ends of his dark hair that brushed his shoulder. "I woke up to him . . . touching me. But that wasn't the worst part. Because it was nice. But _that_ wasn't even the worst part either. The worst part was that he told me . . . he told me he'd done it because I had been touching him in my sleep."

His gaze flickered about as he considered the scenario. "You were . . . you were disoriented, and in a state of shock. You probably didn't even realize who you were with!"

Relief shot through her, forcing the tears to fall down her cheeks, finally. Gasping, she buried her face in the hollow of his shoulder. "Oh, my God!" Her voice came out muffled, but she kept talking regardless. "That's what I thought, too! I thought I must've been dreaming that I was with one of you three."

Almost forgetting the gravity of the situation, he chuckled. "Well, then . . . ."

"Oh, Antonin, _please_ don't get cute, right now!" Lifting her head, she gave him a miserable pout. "Does what was going through my head really matter? It still happened! I can't believe I was so weak!"

"You are _not_ weak. And of course what was going through your head matters." He cupped her face in his hands. "You're in a situation where your very life might depend on convincing yourself something else is happening. All so that some day you'll be able to forgive yourself for what you might end up letting him do."

She'd said it herself, hadn't she? That she might have to play Voldemort's sex-kitten to buy time to get them all out of this. But the reality of it was far different.

"But I _hate_ him. Why did it feel good if I hate him?"

"Dear God." Once more, Antonin chuckled. "Spoken like someone who's never had hate-sex."

Her brows shot up as a surprised laugh bubbled out of her. "Excuse me, what?"

Tilting his head to one side, he watched his own movement as he trailed his fingers along her jaw. "Passion is passion. Two emotions make things feel really good. Love and hate. Happiness and anger."

"Really?"

Smirking at how truly innocent she actually was, he nodded. "Remember when I kissed you that day? You were angry with me, yeah?"

Her features pinched as she nodded back and laughed. " _So_ angry."

"And didn't that make it _good_?"

Meeting his gaze, she offered with a look of realization dawning. "It did."

"There you go."

She couldn't help slumping in his embrace, just a little. So hating Voldemort had the potential to make sexual acts between them feel good? Well, that just seemed so horrifically unfair of a circumstance.

Drawing a calming breath, she asked, "So . . . if you kissed me now? Would it be a happy kiss?"

His features sobered instantly at her question. Blinking slow, he nodded. "Yes, I think it just might be."

A shivering breath escaped her as she smiled. "Good, because I think I just might need a happy kiss right now."

Nodding, he again cupped her face and drew her against him. His mouth closed over hers gentle, the darting of his tongue between her lips, the caress of it stroking her own, stole her breath for how careful, how caring, he was.

Breaking the kiss, he kept his eyes closed and pressed his forehead to hers. "We know what you want us to do. But you have to do something, too."

Her eyes still closed, she felt another damn irritating wash of tears trying to escape. "What?"

"Survive. _Just_ survive. Do what you have to." Leaning back enough to look at her face, he waited for those watery eyes of hers to open before he went on. "Whatever demons come of it? We'll help you fight them. But you _have_ to make it through this. You'll do whatever it takes to live through this. Promise me."

Smiling in spite of her tears, she said, "I promise."

"Good." He climbed to his feet, then, still cradling her petite form in his arms. "Now let's get you to the hospital wing before he has reason to make sure _I_ don't survive this."


	13. Chapter 13

At this point I must inform you this story is drawing to a close over the next couple of chapters. I think I was hoping there would be more to the tale than there is, but here we are. It would be unfair to get to that final chapter without some heads up and just be like "Okay, we're done here!," especially since I know many of you read my besties' work, and Canimal and Kittenshift17 both write epic-length stuff (though, if you guys have read me before, you're probably aware by now that's just not me, as I typically keep stories to modern novel lengths [I do kinda hope that some day in the future, I get so unexpectedly taken with a story and it becomes some super-involved monster fic, but I suppose for now we all wait to see if that happens *awkward grin*]).

* * *

 **Chapter Thirteen**

In the week that followed, Hermione realized her bravado about her side of this plan was only that . . . bravado. An empty act of talking big so she could convince herself and others that what she faced didn't scare the wits out of her. She had no idea if her Gryffindor courage had finally abandoned her, or if it was simply that some part of her brain remained wholly cognizant of what Voldemort truly was—of who he truly was. Some part of her, constantly vigilant against letting the changes she thought she was noticing in him make her forget what he was capable of.

She couldn't bring herself to relax around him at all, not even when he slept. Just as that first night, it nearly seemed as though he couldn't sleep unless he had her cradled against him in the bed. He would chuckle and comment on her fear being palpable, _and after he was so sure they'd come to an understanding that first morning together_ , he'd say.

Hermione'd barely slept, terrified of waking to find herself in the same predicament from that morning. She hated that her body thrilled at the memory of those sensations. Hated him for proving that she could hate him and still _want_ him.

It was during dinner of the second night after that week of sleeplessness and verbal teasing that she found herself eyeing the knife beside her plate.

She let her head tip to one side as she considered . . . could she snatch it up and plunge it into Voldemort's throat? Completely detached from her surroundings as she allowed herself to get caught up in her imaginings, she nodded. She could! But then the horror stricken faces of Orias, Antonin, and Thorfinn as they watched her get struck down by one of the still-loyal Death Eaters floated across her mind's eye.

Then, of course, there was the simple fact that she wasn't sure she could murder someone—even an evil, vile someone—with her bare hands. With a wand and a curse? Sure, if she had to! But taking a life in such a visceral way . . . . After everything she'd already been through, she considered that might only be another scar to throw on the pile.

 _Scars . . . ._

Voldemort hadn't seen her scars, she'd made sure her nightdresses had long sleeves. No one, save herself and her wizards, seemed aware of their existence, at all. For weeks she'd not felt the need to resort to that . . . . To watching the blade drag across her skin, to feeling the pinching sting of the metal edge as it bit into her.

To observe, as though it was some twisted divine act, as the blood welled against her sun-starved skin in the blade's wake.

Hermione wasn't certain quite when she'd reached over, but at some point, she became aware of gripping the knife's handle in her fingers. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep that she couldn't keep account of her own actions, she would later reflect, or even the returning of that doll-like state that she was so mechanical about the action. With perfect patience and deliberateness, she pulled the sleeve of her robes up to her elbow, carelessly baring the scars on the inside of her upper left forearm.

A little voice in her head whispered that if she concentrated, she could probably feel the weight of three very concerned gazes pressing on her from across the table. They couldn't see what she was doing from their angle, precisely, but it was probably her demeanor and her automated motions that worried them, that voice said.

It was definitely that she must be utterly exhausted and wrung out, that she only watched her own actions in some sort of fugue state as she set the edge of the blade against her skin, between two of her older scars, and started to drag it across, pressing down just a bit.

There was a sudden explosion of movement as the knife was snatched from her hand and thrown aside—with some force, she would also later remember hearing the metal clang loudly off one of the Great Hall's stone walls—and then her bared arm was gripped by unforgiving fingers. She was aware of Voldemort shooting up from his chair and dragging her up to stand with him. Aware of the hush that had fallen over the already relatively quiet chamber.

He seemed to become equally aware of the attention, and he despised the scrutiny. She was _his_ , no one else need be aware of what was unfolding.

A frighteningly dark frown playing on his lips, he hissed an instruction to MacNair to dismiss the students from the meal at the usual time. Careful to shield her scars from view as he moved, he pulled his Mudblood from the room.

She finally managed to jar herself awake as much as she was able when the doors slammed shut behind them. My, he looked angry. There was a disjointed idea in her mind that this was extremely amusing, and if not for the notion that it would probably not be in her best interest to laugh at his displeasure, she'd have done exactly that.

"What _is_ this?" he said in that hissing whisper as he held her arm up before her eyes, as though she'd have no idea what he was asking about, otherwise.

Oh, look, she thought as she stared at the appendage, she _had_ managed to nick herself before he got that knife away from her. Huh, she hadn't even felt it.

"Scars," she said, her voice small and flat.

He was too irate just now for her state to register on him. "I can see that, Mudblood. Where did they come from?"

" _Oh_." Her chestnut eyes went wide as she nodded. "Me."

Voldemort's own eyes narrowed at her demeanor. She seemed almost inebriated. It wasn't his imagination, she'd really not been sleeping! Now that he was looking at her carefully, he could see how pale she was, could see the circles beneath her eyes.

She was trying to end herself to get away from him, wasn't she?

" _Why_?!"

Hermione shrugged, her current state keeping her completely unfazed by his anger. "I needed something I could still affect."

Confusion filled his face. "What?"

Oh, hell, there was no point in not explaining it, now. Little by little each day it had seemed like he was trying to understand her just a bit more. That, however, she suspected was an unexpected side-effect of regaining human flesh. He'd not accounted for the pleasure of simple skin-to-skin contact, and he'd certainly not accounted for the return of those physical sensations making him feel things that were _more_ , things that were _deeper_.

"You took it all," her voice was small but matter-of-fact as she spoke, her gaze unblinking as it held his. "Everything I cared about. Everything I had. You took it all and it never even mattered to you. You didn't do it with malice, or intent to wrong me, personally, though you _were_ malicious, and you intentionally _did_ wrong. It was just a side effect of fulfilling your own wishes. I had nothing left, except my own body. The _only_ thing I had the power to decide what to with. Now, you're taking that, too."

For several silent and strained heartbeats, he merely stared down at her. His expression shifted from confused to enraged and back again more times than she could count during those quiet moments.

Apparently giving up on what seemed a concerted effort to understand her, he started dragging her along the corridor.

Still in a bit of a daze—it had to be her currently half-mad imagination, because it could not actually be that he was trying to sympathize!—she let her gaze wander the stone walls drifting past them as she asked, "Where are we going?"

"I'm taking you to Narcissa," was all he offered in answer.

Aware he was in no mood for discussion or further questioning, she nodded, instead focusing on getting her feet under her properly as they moved along.

* * *

Draco bit back a sound of shock as someone grabbed him by the collar of his robes and pulled him around the bend of a corridor. Sooner than he could draw his wand, he found his back against a wall, his wand arm pinned beside him in an iron grip as a hand fastened over his mouth.

Wide-eyed and blinking around, as he cursed and shouted behind the muffling fingers, he was surprised to find Antonin Dolohov and Thorfinn Rowle staring down at him.

They didn't appear angry, or seem ready to hurt him. Settling down, he glared at Dolohov as he waited for the dark-haired wizard's hand to fall away from his mouth.

"What the bloody hell are you two doing?"

Thorfinn relinquished his hold on Draco's wand arm as he exchanged a glance with Antonin. "We . . . well, we need your help."

Peeling himself away from the wall, Draco scowled as he fussed to straighten his robes. "Far gentler ways of asking for favors, you know."

With a wince, Thorfinn said, "It's . . . yeah, it's sort of secret. We can't have anyone else finding out what we're up to."

Draco rolled his eyes. "And what exactly are _we_ up to?"

Antonin glanced around before speaking. "Depends. Word has it you're gifted at potions. That true?"

Trying not to smirk proudly, Draco shrugged as one of his eyebrows flicked upward for a second. "Yeah."

"Good. Then you're going to help us get Hermione out of the Dark Lord's clutches."

Holding up his hands, Draco shook his head. "Wait, wait. You want _me_ to help rescue Granger?"

Once more, the other two Death Eaters exchanged a glance before each giving a nod.

After a thoughtful second, Draco returned their nod. "Could've just said so in the first fucking place. What's the plan?"

* * *

In a shocking turn of events, Voldemort had left Hermione in Narcissa's care, insisting the Medi-witch give his Mudblood something to help her rest and treat the cut on her arm. No questions about the scars surrounding it were permitted.

Despite the elder witch's fussing, once they were alone Hermione insisted to Narcissa she'd be able to sleep without any aid. When Narcissa arched an almost motherly brow at her, Hermione leaned close, whispering about how the thing keeping her from sleeping was _his_ presence. Mostly, Hermione didn't want anything that would make coming out of sleep difficult. After that first morning in his bed, she was terrified of him taking advantage of any such state.

Finally, in a far corner of the hospital wing, on a curtained-off bed, Hermione managed a handful of utterly peaceful hours dozing.

When she woke later that night, she nearly jumped out of her skin at the sense of someone holding her hand. Yet, she recognized this touch. Even before opening her eyes, she _knew_ the breadth and length of the fingers stroking her skin.

She'd not been alone with him, not been able to talk to him, since their trip with Narcissa to Hogsemeade before Voldemort had stripped away what precious little had been left of her freedom.

Opening her eyes, finally, she met his worried gaze. She swallowed hard, amazed she could get her voice to work at all for the tears she felt clogging her throat. "Orias?"

"Sweet Merlin, Little Witch," he said with a rumbling sigh as he shook his head. "I think you've broken me. Big, scary Death Eater . . . fretting myself sick over you. Honestly! You ought to be ashamed!"

Pulling herself to sit up, she snickered. She wondered if he had any idea how much it warmed her that he was here—never mind the parts about making her laugh, or even mentioning how he worried for her.

"I'm okay, you . . . silly mountain." She watched him as he moved from the chair to settle himself upon the edge of her bed. "What's happening with, well, you know?" She didn't want to risk Narcissa overhearing anything she could be punished for knowing but not sharing with the Dark Lord.

"Well, Dolohov and Rowle are enlisting help. From someone who just might now exactly what will do the job you want."

Darting her gaze about as she listened for a second, ensuring herself Narcissa wasn't near—given the hour, she was likely sleeping in that bed set by the front desk. "You mean Draco?"

Orias sat up a bit straighter, scanning her face before his brows pinched together. "He really must be good with potions if you made that connection so fast."

She shrugged, her head so much clearer now that she'd had real sleep. _Oh_ , she'd been quite the mess earlier, hadn't she? "I did attend classes with him for six years. Yes, he's—excuse the Muggle turn of phrase—a 'wizard' with potions."

"Well, point is, it shouldn't be much longer, now. Only thing to figure out is what to do afterward."

Hermione knew perfectly well that was sort of a big problem. Sure, they could fake her death, but she didn't exactly have some lengthy list of places she could run to after the potion wore off.

Meeting his gaze, she shook her head. "Right now, I'm just thinking about trying to get through the next hour, next day, next few days. Once he'd convinced I'm dead, I don't care where I am—hell, hide me in your quarters, if need be, I just can't go on like this."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, a smirk curved Orias' lips. "Hide you in my quarters, hmm?"

She couldn't help smiling at the suggestive tone in his voice. "You know what I'm saying."

He was leaning nearer, his face hovering over hers as he said, "Probably for the best if we've more options than that, as I share quarters with Rowle and Dolohov. I'd like to limit their time with you, not give them more opportunities."

Her eyelids drifted down as she pressed close to him. "Too bad, they're part of my heart, now, just like you are. You three are the only things keeping me sane in all this."

A groan rumbled in the back of his throat. "Fine, I'll be a _little_ lenient, I can't promise anything more."

The smile faded from her face as his lips brushed hers. Just as fast, however, she snapped backward, her hand covering her mouth.

His eyes shot wide open. "What's wrong?"

With an awkward laugh, she held up her free hand. "No, nothing, really. I's just my breath. Middle of the night, and all that."

"Oh for fuck's sake," he said, a laugh edging his words. "You think I care about that?"

In a blink, Hermione found herself on his lap. His mouth on hers, her self-conscious worries fled as his tongue darted between her lips to caress hers.

She let herself melt into it, slipping her arms up to twine her fingers behind his neck.

The infirmary doors swinging open forced the couple to still. She leaned back from him just enough to meet his gaze with huge, scared eyes.

"Where is she?"

Narcissa's voice, often scratchy sounding from how rarely the Dark Lord permitted her to speak, cut easily across the otherwise quiet space of the infirmary. "She's sleeping, still. I would suggest you leave her until morning, My Lord."

Orias was making comforting gestures, smoothing his hands over Hermione's wild hair, and pressing silent kisses to her cheeks and they waited. She thought she could hear the pounding of their pulses in the silence that followed Narcissa's words.

"I will check on her."

Hermione nearly shrieked, the sudden coiling of icy tension in her almost too much to bear. Orias noticed her swelling panic and pressed a finger to her lips, whispering gently in her ear that everything would be okay, she simply needed to stay quiet.

"That is not a good idea, My Lord. She's a _witch,_ after all. Just because you don't wake her doesn't mean she won't sense your presence." There was what seemed a thoughtful—calculated—pause. "If you want her fully rested, then you _must_ leave her be."

Hermione folded her lips inward, tears welling in her eyes as she held Orias' gaze.

"Very well. First thing in the morning I will be back."

With those words, they heard footfalls in the distance, followed by the doors opening and closing once more. Hermione all but collapsed in Orias' embrace at the relief flooding her.

Lighter footsteps came toward them, then. Narcissa Malfoy. Her sleek, pale-blond head peeked through the curtain.

Somehow, Hermione found her voice as Orias slid his finger from her lips. "Thank you."

Narcissa nodded before turning a stern look on the massive Death Eater the younger witch seemed to be using as a chair.

Snickering, he held up his hands. "I'll be out before he returns 'first thing', promise!"

Arching a brow, Narcissa mouthed a single word.

Orias nodded. " _And_ I'll behave myself while I'm here so she can rest."

With a satisfied nod, Narcissa disappeared from the curtain. Her steps returned across the infirmary floor and then the space was quiet, again.

A watery smile playing on her lips, Hermione asked, "You're going to stay with me?"

Grinning, he laid down and moved her to tuck against his side, her head pillowed in the hollow of his shoulder. "Sure. I mean, it's not like I'm risking torture and grisly death, or anything, if I'm caught."

Hermione closed her eyes, swallowing down a laugh that was part genuine, part nervous sound over his easy acceptance of their current circumstances.

He brushed a kiss against the top of her head. "You just rest, now. We'll worry about tomorrow when we get to it."


	14. Chapter 14

**Three chapters to go after this! OMG!**

* * *

 **Chapter Fourteen**

She drifted awake the next morning with a vague memory of Orias dropping a kiss on her forehead before he vanished. There was a faint rocking motion that she became aware of even before she opened her eyes. Strange, she was still warm, still comfortable, but she didn't smell the familiar scents of the school hospital wing around her.

No, the scent so near to her face, as she had her cheek pressed to some cozy fabric, was familiar to her for a different reason. The beat of her heart kicked up just a little as she realized why.

Opening her eyes at last, she moved her head only enough to look up. Sure enough, that warm feeling was being carried in someone's arms, and that familiarity was due to sharing his bed for the last week and a half.

As she considered how shocked she should be to find Voldemort cradling her against him so delicately as he walked through the corridor—moving as though her weight in his arms were nothing at all—she realized her fear of him when he'd entered the infirmary last night had not been for herself. It had been for Orias. Even with all the horrors he was responsible for, she'd known in her heart he'd not have done a thing to her, but his wrath, every last drop of it, would be visited upon his wayward follower, entirely.

It didn't matter that she would be left unharmed when she thought of what sort of punishment that wrath might lead to for Orias.

"What's going on?"

The Dark Lord lowered his head, those blue eyes meeting her gaze for a brief moment, before returning his attention to the path he was walking. "Nothing is 'going on'. You were still sleeping when I came to fetch you, so I was trying not to wake you."

Given what time that must mean this was, she felt her eyes widen at the notion. He was likely missing breakfast just now. Which would mean he intended to return her to his quarters. Did he mean to go on with his day as scheduled after that? _Without i_ nsisting she be by his side? That was . . . .

No. She'd reserve judgment until she was sure he had no other plans in mind, no ulterior motive—that this was not some attempt to lull her into a false sense of security in his presence. She would not allow herself to think he was actually being considerate of her, that he might've been mulling over the things she'd said to him last night, until she saw _actual_ proof of it.

When he quietly stormed into the headmaster's quarters, he made a bee-line for the bed, merely setting her upon it before turning and starting away. No jokes about removing any sharp objects from the room so she couldn't hurt herself, no teasing words about how _insulted_ he was that she could sleep alone in a hospital bed, but not here beside him. She even expected him to close the door, pivot on his heel to face her, and then reprimand her for putting him to any trouble.

Now that she thought on it, he did look tired. In a way she'd not seen the entire time he'd had his new face.

Was it really the case that he couldn't rest while she was away from him last night? No. That didn't seem possible. That she wondered if learning about her self-harm caused him— _him_ , Dark Lord Voldemort!—to worry seemed even less likely.

He only glanced back at her over his shoulder as he gripped the doorknob. "You seem to require more sleep. Rest now. I'll have the elves bring you something to eat."

And then he was gone, closing the door behind him.

Hermione swallowed hard, dropping her wide-eyed gaze to the floor as she realized what had happened. As she'd realized her impossible notions appeared correct, after all. He was giving her time alone to rest, allowing her to take a meal in private, away from all those prying eyes he'd still so recently wished to watch and observe _everything_ in regard to his ownership over her.

Shaking her head, she crawled beneath the covers and pulled them up to her chin. She would try to rest, because she knew her body needed it, and she knew she had no idea when she might get another opportunity to sleep undisturbed before this was all finished.

But, as she mulled over the sheer impossibility of what seemed to be happening—the sheer impossibility that _Voldemort_ , the most evil wizard who'd ever lived seemed to be changing—she had no idea how she'd ever get to sleep.

* * *

"And what might we be up to?"

Draco nearly jumped out of his skin at Alecto's voice drifting through the door of the potion's lab. Whirling on his heel, he blocked his workstation from view, bracing his palms on the edge of the table on either side of him as he glared at her.

"We might be up to getting _really_ angry over everyone scaring the life out of us, lately!"

Her brows shot up as she let out a short, scoffing laugh. "What _are_ you going on about, Little Malfoy?"

Hanging his head, he sighed. "Nothing, just . . . . Nothing. Just working on a small . . . curiosity project, nothing to concern yourself with." Lifting his head, he arched an eyebrow of his own at the way she stepped into the room and started drawing close, clearly trying to get a peek at what he was guarding. "No need to concern yourself, Carrow," he reiterated.

Halting, the witch tipped her head to one side. "Oh? Rather protective of this 'curiosity.' Perhaps there's more to this than that, hmm?"

Draco's eyes flashed wide for a split-second before he got his expression under control and narrowed them in a suspicious glare. "None of your business what I do with my own time."

Alecto frowned in thought as she observed his wary behavior. True, the youngest Malfoy had always been a little bit squirrely, but this was more than that. Come to think of it, those other three had been acting a bit squirrely, too—though for those three great lummoxes, that _was_ unusual.

She could think of only one connection between these four. One connection that had disappeared from public view very, _very_ recently.

Strolling over to the next nearest workstation, she trailed her fingers along the table's ledge. "I see. Well, if you won't tell me, maybe I can guess. Would this, or would it not, have something to do with . . . ?" She made a deliberate show of looking over her shoulder toward the door, of listening for a moment to ensure no one was in the corridor beyond, before she went on in a whisper, "With the Dark Lord's pet Mudblood?"

Even lowered as her voice was, Draco noticed something. There was a hint of true disdain in her tone when she said the words 'Dark Lord'. His eyes narrowed further, still. "He's done something to you, hasn't he?"

Alecto sneered. It wasn't what he'd made her do after the ritual that plagued her, though she was still revolted by it. It was that he'd made her do that after he'd about literally stripped the life from her brother. Amycus was a wretch of a creature sometimes, not anyone a witch would bring home to their family if not for his surname. But he _was_ her brother, and if anyone was going to put him six feet under, it should've been her!

"No. It's not what he's done to me. It's what he's taken from me."

His tense posture relaxing a little, he made a decision. The anger with which she spoke was so heavy, so thick, he wondered how she'd not choked trying to talk just now. "I'll tell you what I'm up to if you'll take a sip of the Veritaserum in that cupboard behind you."

Again, her brows shot upward. "You're serious?"

He shrugged, the gesture almost lazy now that he'd regained his composure. "You're asking me to trust you. Give me a reason."

Her shoulders moving in a quiet sigh, she held his gaze a moment longer before turning toward the cupboard. Crossing the room, she did as requested, letting him see the act so that he would have no chance to think she was pulling a fast one.

After she set the bottle back in the cupboard, he nodded. "So," he started, "what _are_ your feelings toward our Dark Lord?"

"I want the bastard to suffer for a thousand life times." Her green eyes shot wide and she clamped her hand over her mouth. After a heartbeat, she darted to the doorway and looked out. If anyone had overheard that just now . . . . Finding the corridor empty, she stepped back inside and shut the door.

Backpedaling, she cast a silencing charm. Satisfied, she put away her wand and turned back to face Draco, once more. "G' on, then. Are we going to talk about what you're up to or not?"

He stared at her for a moment, long and silent and strained, before opening his mouth again. "I have just a few more questions before I can trust you with this."

She rolled her eyes so hard the lids fluttered. "God, you're annoying."

"Gotta love Veritaserum," he said with a wince. Collecting himself, he pushed on. He had to ask this—he had to know. He had to hope there might be light for some of them when this was all over, even if _this_ wasn't something he'd have imagined being part of that. Even if it meant at least one person in his life would walk away broken-hearted. "I've noticed how much time you spend with my mother when my father's attending the Dark Lord's business at the Ministry."

Alecto's face paled.

Her reaction spoke volumes, but reaction alone wasn't enough. "I've seen how you look at her." He pursed his lips, exhaling through his nostrils before continuing. "I've seen how she watches you when she thinks no one's paying attention."

The witch pressed her lips together as she darted her gaze about the room. Had they really been so obvious, or had Draco simply been so observant because this was his mother they were talking about? She had to think it was the latter, because otherwise she imagined Lucius would've tried to kill her by now.

"So, I need to ask. As much as I feel a bit queasy having to discuss my mother's private matters . . . ." He drew a deep breath, bracing himself. "Are you and my mother lovers?"

"Yes," Alecto said, her voice quiet and shivering a little.

"I see." Swallowing hard, Draco nodded. "Do you love her?"

She was shocked to feel her eyes well up a bit, even though she'd known the answer months ago. "Yes."

He closed his eyes, taking another breath and letting it out slow. "And do you believe you make each other happy?"

Unable to help the small grin that curved her lips, Alecto nodded. "I really do."

For another strained moment, he only stared at her.

With a nod, he finally said, "All right then. C'mon over here and I'll tell you what we're doing while we work."

At first, Alecto didn't move a muscle. Forcing her legs into motion, she came to stand beside him as he turned back toward his workstation.

"Your mother's happiness really matters to you, doesn't it?"

Arching a brow, he jutted his chin toward a beaker. She grabbed it and handed it to him as he answered, "Yes, I suppose it does. 'S gonna be up to you two to sort this mess with my father when the time comes, though."

She snickered, awaiting his next instruction. "Coward."

"Damn right."

"Now, is this going to kill the Dark Lord?"

Draco shook his head. "No, but you'll still be happy, I imagine."

"Oh?" A wicked smile curved her lips. "Do tell!"

Swirling the half-prepared concoction in a new vial, he said, "You want him to suffer? We're going to make him think he's lost the only thing he seems to care about anymore."

* * *

Orias and Antonin both elbowed Thorfinn, who'd been yammering on—about what the older wizards seated on either side of him had no idea. Snapping his mouth shut, he looked up, aware that if he was getting it from both sides, than he wasn't simply being silently told to shut up.

"I don't understand," he said as he followed the direction of their gazes. "Where is she?"

The three stared at the Dark Lord as he moved toward the dais in silence. Neither he nor Hermione had been at breakfast, now he was attending lunch alone.

Voldemort made no attempt to speak to anyone, merely waving in dismissive gesture for everyone to start eating. Calming his seat at the center of the faculty's dining table, he scowled at his plate.

As the meal went on, the three couldn't help continuing to keep their eyes on him. The meal didn't seem to interest him at all. Every so often he'd glance around the grand chamber. Yet, the only thing that really appeared to claim his attention was her empty space next to him. More often than turning his disinterested gaze on his plate—he'd not even bothered to fill it—more often than darting his eyes about his surroundings.

He kept returning to her absence from his side.

The three exchanged wary looks several times throughout the course of the meal. Only after it ended, and the Dark Lord had returned to the headmaster's office to attend his usual business, did any of them dare speak on it.

"What the bloody hell was that?"

Antonin shook his head, frowning at Thorfinn's question. "I think . . . I can't really be sure, because our angle's not the best, but I think I saw her grab the knife last night before he took her away. He might've caught her trying to hurt herself. Did she say anything when you saw her in the hospital last night?"

Orias returned the headshake with a frown of his own. "No. But then we didn't get to talk much because—"

"Oy! Don't boast at a time like this! It's unseemly," Thorfinn said with a furrowed brow.

"I was _going_ to say because she had to rest. She's not been sleeping, we've all noticed it. Narcissa wouldn't have permitted me to stay unless I let our little witch sleep. I think that's what's wrong with him."

Antonin and Thorfinn both gaped at him, somewhere between aghast and disbelieving.

Shaking his head once more, Orias could barely believe it himself as he uttered the words, "I think he's worried about her."

The three could only stare around at each other as they tried to process the notion. As they tried to comprehend just when the last time might've been that the Dark Lord had concerned himself with anything besides his own well-being and ambitions.

"My God," Thorfinn said in an astonished whisper. "She's actually broken him."


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

She must've fallen asleep at some point during her troubled and confused tumble of thoughts, she realized dully, because the sound of the door to the headmaster's quarters opening and closing jarred her awake. It had been a deep, dark sleep, no dreams she could recall. Her eyes were still a bit blurry, though she was sure she saw Voldemort standing just inside the doorway as she pulled herself to sit up.

Blinking to clear her vision, the Dark Lord's form at the front of the room came into focus. He was looking from her to something beside her, and back. Moving slow, she turned her head to find the other object of his attention. Upon the table beside the bed was tray set with an untouched plate of food. Hermione understood now he must've instructed the elves not to disturb her unnecessarily.

She'd slept straight through eating? Then again, aside from last night in the school hospital, she couldn't recall the last time she'd really, truly, rested when she slept anymore. He'd clearly been correct earlier, she had _needed_ more sleep.

He gestured vaguely toward the plate. "You should eat."

Her eyes narrowed a little when he left it at that, and she found herself unable to make heads or tails of the dull tone in his voice. When her only response was to continue watching him with a wary expression, he shook his head. He merely pulled the door closed behind him and moved to a chair in the corner of the room.

She expected him to glare at her until she complied with his suggestion. Yet, he didn't. He merely stared at one of the walls, obviously mired in his own thoughts.

Shifting a little beneath the covers, she reached for the tray upon which the plate rested and pulled it into her lap. Her attention fixed on the food before her. The meal had gone a bit cold, but it was still good, and being the first thing she'd eaten in a little over a day, she devoured it. The sounds of her utensils moving across the plate were the only thing to punctuate the rather unnerving silence in the room as she ate.

Finishing, she ended up staring at her plate for a moment. He hadn't seemed to look over at her at all as she took her dinner. She couldn't imagine what might be going through his head, and she wasn't sure she wanted to know, either. What disturbed her, however, was that she was curious in spite of herself.

Giving her body a subtle shake, she returned the tray to the table and then pushed back her covers. "I just . . . need the . . . ." She let her voice trail off as she waved her hand in the direction of the en-suite bathroom of the headmaster's quarters, though she didn't wait for any sort of acknowledgement from him before climbing out of bed and crossing the floor.

After having the door closed between them, she pressed her back to it. Focusing on the air moving into her lungs and back out again, she tried to wrap her mind around what was happening.

The most logical explanation for this was that last night had shaken him. Over the long months since War's End—dear God, she wasn't even certain what day it was, anymore, had she completely missed her own birthday? Why yes, she had, weeks ago, if she tried to gauge it, she thought—the one constant thing, day in day out, was her presence at his side whenever he'd wanted it. He'd come to take her very existence in his world for granted, a thing he could count on to be there always.

Swallowing hard, she locked the door, not that it would make very much difference if Voldemort wasn't content to let her have privacy. As she went about her business—using the toilet, disrobing and washing up, drying off and redressing as fast as she could, remembering belatedly to brush her teeth—she tried not to think that the state he was in could have to do with a sudden realization that any time, like a snap of one's fingers, she could be torn out of his life.

That couldn't be truth of this, it couldn't! He barely saw her as a person, he could not possibly be distraught over anything to do with her. Unless . . . .

As she reached for the lock on the doorknob to turn it, she froze, her hand hovering in the air. She'd known his determination to keep her as some sort of prize had become something of a fixation for him. That he'd become obsessed with drawing her out from behind her walls so that he might break her. That his entire mad scheme of gaining back his flesh has been for that purpose, alone. Yet, she also knew that plot had backfired on him rather than breaking her—though she'd be lying if she said it hadn't chipped away a little at her defenses. That it had forced him to recall feelings beyond the dark emotions that had ruled him for literally decades, that had been all he'd known since coming back from the dead.

His plot to undo her had instead only confused him. Could that confusion . . . ? She swallowed hard, shaking her head. Could that confusion be leading him to mistake his obsessive fixation for _love_?

With a weighted sigh, she reminded herself she couldn't simply stay in the bathroom all night. She had no idea how to feel about any of the notions that had just swirled though her mind, but with how he'd been behaving since last night, God willing he'd simply let her go back to bed and she could pretend to never have thought these things, at all.

As she at last unlocked the door and pushed it open, she found that he was already in bed. Whether or not he was asleep she could not tell at first glance for how dark the room was, the only illumination provided by one lantern atop the bedside table behind him.

Before she could think anything about it, at all, he spoke up. "If you feel you can't rest now, you have my permission to return to the library for this evening. Perhaps you'll find comfort amongst your books."

Hermione thought she might actually scream for the shock that ran through her at his words. He was being considerate?

"Well, then, I'll go. Goodnight, My Lord." Feeling unable to truly process how this allowance made her feel, the words that tumbled from his lips next stopped her in her tracks as she was moving on hurried footfalls to the door.

She turned to gape at his motionless figure on the bed. As sure as they were both in this room, he'd just said, "Goodnight, Hermione," with a distinctly thoughtless air.

Unable to help herself, she began to backpedal. Coming around the bedside, she approached quiet and cautious. The witch knelt down beside the bed, watching his face.

Not . . . not _Mudblood_. Not even _Miss Granger_. He'd just called her by her given name, and he'd not even noticed he'd done it. He was humanizing her for the first time. She was utterly speechless. Somehow, she was chipping through his bigotry and his hatred.

She _was_ changing him.

And, any day now, she was going to trick him into believing she'd died. If that happened now, like this, the loss would only reharden his heart. It would make everything worse, it would make _him_ worse.

He merely stared back at her in silence for a long while, clearly wondering what she could possibly be thinking to observe him so boldly like this. And in that moment, a little voice crept into Hermione's thoughts.

A little understanding broke through to her. She hated him, yes, she would always hate him, because he was a monster in the truest sense of one. A dark thing out of twisted fairy tales lurked behind that beautiful face. But monsters didn't create themselves. His hatred, as well, had not created itself. His cruelty and malice were born from those very same types of cold unkindness he'd been shown by Muggles. Born from the notion that no one truly cared about anything except power. Hell, even the kindness Dumbledore had shown him had only been out of fear of what the young man might grow into otherwise.

That was _not_ genuine caring.

She hated him, but in a way her heart broke for him. Hermione understood that in this moment, she wielded a power no one else in the world had. And that power was the opportunity to create a new ideal for him. His hatred was burning and crumbling around him, and out of the ashes of that negativity, something new could be built. Something given form if someone showed him gentleness. Showed him kindness.

Gave him one _sincere_ moment of peace. She understood now that was the one thing he'd truly never known.

He had wanted everything from her. She knew with how fixated he'd become, having all of her was the sole thing that made sense in his mind, anymore. He'd only ever had a shell of her, only bits and pieces.

Blinking back tears—for herself, for him, for everyone, probably—she reached out, brushing the tips of her fingers across his lips. Now, just for tonight, she'd let him have _all_ of her.

There was a brief stab of guilt over what she was about to do. She couldn't help but wonder if her wizards would understand this after everything was over, but then Antonin's words of reassurance ran through her head.

 _Survive._ _Just_ _survive. Do what you have to . . . . Whatever demons come of it? We'll help you fight them. But you_ _have_ _to make it through this. You'll do whatever it takes to live through this._ Promise _me._

She wasn't entirely certain _this_ scenario fit with a personal need for survival, but she was the only one with power over Voldemort. If she didn't try right now, if she didn't use the only advantage she had, she'd never forgive herself.

That confusion in his eyes deepened at her gesture, at the way she was looking at him. What the bloody hell was happening to him that he actually _cared_ what was going through her head?

Letting that fragile touch fall away, she stood, her gaze locked with his. In the silence, she started to remove her dressing gown, barely blinking as her eyes held his.

Sitting up, he was barely aware of the covers falling away from him to pool around his naked hips. "What you doing?"

Hermione frowned, recognizing his mildly acidic tone. Though his reaction nearly seemed one of fear, she knew it was one of bewilderment. He couldn't comprehend the situation. And, because he couldn't comprehend it, he naturally assumed she was making some effort to manipulate him. She supposed in a sense she was, but the idea that this night could be the key to someone as evil as him perhaps wanting redemption didn't quite appear some horrible machination in her mind, so it didn't equate with what he would consider manipulation, at all.

Shaking her head, she continued disrobing. She answered only after the material fell to the floor at her feet, baring her to him. "I suppose I'm hoping."

He held motionless as he watched her round the bed and pull back the covers to slip beneath them. Watched her as she settled beside him on the mattress, closer than he knew she was usually comfortable being to him. Certainly closer than she'd ever been to him without his prompting.

"Hoping?" he echoed the word, unsure what to make of it as he lowered his head. His gaze followed her fingers as she reached toward him, as she traced over his skin, her touch curious and delicate.

She'd known he was warm, this wasn't the first time his skin had been against hers, after all. Yet, before this moment, she'd not allowed herself to really notice anything about his new visage at all. Well, that wasn't _entirely_ true, but then she'd have to have lost her sight to not be aware how aesthetically pleasing he was. In the past, before whatever dark ritual had made him whole again, he'd touched her . . . . Like a corpse, he'd been. What passed for flesh dry and cold, the press of it unforgiving.

Now, he was so very warm. His skin beneath her stroking fingertips was soft . . . and _alive_. He'd been a shell, too.

God, she hoped she was making the right decision. Hoped that by giving him this, when he lost her, he would yearn to create more opportunities for peace and gentleness. Dear Lord, that sounded like a lofty goal, didn't it? Lofty, maybe even a bit pretentious to assume that such a thing could come from so base an action, but if a creature like Voldemort could look at her—a Muggle-born witch—the way he was right now, she supposed _anything_ was possible.

Swallowing hard, Hermione nodded. She decided to be honest . . . after a fashion. "Hoping that this moment will matter to you."

She could tell by the way his face fell that he had no idea what to say to that. No idea, at all, what to make of her words.

No idea how to respond for a few heartbeats as she leaned close, pressing her lips to his in chaste exploration. That man who'd been so certain of himself and his power and his imminent breaking of her will was now unsettled. Wavering. Unsure of _everything._

He actually put up his hands, pushing her back. "Stop. I can't abide this. I don't understand what you're doing! What are you up to?"

Her brow furrowed as she stared at him, wide-eyed. "I—I don't understand, either. I thought you wanted me like this." He really was convinced kindness only existed as a manipulation. She hated that he was sort of right, but she wasn't trying to hurt him—she was trying to _heal_ him.

Shaking his head, he threw back the covers and shot to his feet. Pacing erratically beside the bed, he pressed his curled fists against his temples. "I _do_. But you don't want me, you never wanted me. Never wanted me to touch you or even look at you!" Voldemort stopped his pacing, gesturing at the confused witch's bared arms. "Never wanted me to _see_ you. Now this? I understand everything that's ever been put before except _this_!"

Hermione felt truly unnerved for a moment. Like she was watching him teetering on the brink of falling into true madness because a woman was making known an intent to sleep with him. No, she reminded herself sternly. It was nothing so frivolous. As she'd been saying in her head this entire time, it was not to do with her actions, it was the _why_ of the whole thing.

It had been no exaggeration to consider that he had no idea how to handle someone treating him with kindness. That _was_ heartbreaking.

Deciding this strange turn of events would only veer back on course if she was continued being honest about the matter, she climbed out of bed, too. She splayed her hands in the air in a placating gesture, oddly not finding it strange to be having a talk with a young-looking, _fit_ Voldemort while they were both stark naked.

Hermione let that heartbreak she felt for him now leak into her voice. "I'm so sorry you can't comprehend this; I'm sorry your life hasn't equipped you to deal with genuine kindness, but that's _all_ this is. Trying to offer you comfort and solace, the type that _only_ comes from being intimate with someone."

He stared back at her, those blue eyes wide. Dropping his arms to his sides, he asked in a tone that bordered on something like desperation, "Why? Why would _you_ show _me_ kindness?"

Oh, dear Lord. She was actually starting to feel bad for what he was going to go through when he lost her. Curse her compassionate nature!

Curling in on herself a bit, she only shook her head as she held his gaze. "Because you just showed it to me."

His brow furrowed and his expression pinched in disbelief. "I . . . _what_?"

"You really don't understand this _at all._ You don't even know what you did, do you?"

Anger edged his voice as he snapped, "I think I've made that abundantly clear!"

A laugh bubbled out of her then and she closed the distance between them. Taking advantage of his surprise at her reaction to his shout, she caught one of his hands between both of hers.

"No, no. I mean just now. Even this morning." She shrugged, blinking as she stared up at him. "You left me her to rest, because you knew I needed it. You recognized that I might not be able to sleep now, so you were allowing me to go to the library—for _comfort_ , you said. For months, I have witnessed everyone around me scurrying to make your every whim a reality for fear of punishment if they failed you. For years, I have heard stories of your cruelty and maliciousness. Never once was there any indication that you could put a consideration for another person ahead of yourself."

For a moment, for just a heartbeat, she saw a flicker of fear in his eyes.

"I don't know what's happening to me," he said, his voice small.

She had never imagined she'd breathe these words to Voldemort of _all_ people, even as she said, "You're healing."

Again, he furrowed his brow in question, but remained silent.

"All life ever did was wound you. So you wounded right back. And now, I can't believe I'm saying this, but now, those wounds that made you a monster . . . they're trying to close." Slipping one of her hands from his, she pressed her palm over his heart. "And so I decided that tonight, I would repay your attempt to show me comfort by comforting you. Just for tonight. And then, in the morning, you can decide if you want to keep healing, or you want to tear those wounds open anew and keep being the monster. Change is terrifying, no matter how strong you are. And right now, I'm the only person in the world who even knows you might be capable of it."

He pursed his lips, darting his gaze about the room as though thinking this through were some concerted physical effort. "So if I don't want this change I don't have to accept it, is what you're saying?"

Dangerous question. He was trying to talk himself out of facing what scared him. But then, didn't everyone?

"What I'm saying is leave that question for morning. For _after_ you've learned what solace can feel like."

He watched her again as though she was some strange, exotic creature as she used her hand on his to lead him back to the bed. "I lorded my ownership over you. I was cruel to you. Terrifying to you. Being gentle was all it took?"

She smirked, ignoring how difficult this entire scenario was to believe. "Madness, right?"

"I am rather certain it is, yes."

He followed her guidance as she moved him to turn and lie on the bed. He once more watched her as she settled atop him, her fingers traced over him as she'd done earlier. At the warmth of her pressing over him, he thought he might already be hard.

She leaned down, brushing her lips against his before darting her tongue between them. Hermione tilted her head, alternately caressing his tongue with her own and pulling back to nip playfully at his lower lip.

A rough sigh rumbled out of him and he at last allowed his eyes to drift closed as his brought his hands up to touch her skin. His fingers moved over her slow, tentative, as he stroked up along her back to her shoulders, down the length of her arms and to her own hands as she explored him.

There was something so . . . almost shy in the gesture. She pulled back, meeting his gaze in the sparse illumination as her she stilled her hands. He stared up at her in question, but she had nothing to say. No words to explain how odd this felt. There was simply something so _innocent_ in this moment, and she could scarcely believe this was something that was really happening, given who he was.

Sitting up, she dropped her gaze from his as she guided his hands to cup her breasts. Her eyelids fluttered as he followed her urging, the edges of his thumbnails circling over her nipples. Dropping her hands from his, she went back to those gentle, exploring touches. For half a heartbeat, she flicked her attention to his face. He was watching his fingers against her skin as though trying to memorize the movements, and she could swear there was a flush in his cheeks.

Hermione closed her eyes, letting sensation lead her as she ran her hands over him. The rugged edge of his jaw, the soft, slightly cool sides of his throat. Over his collarbones and down his chest and the muscled lines of his sides.

At some point, she couldn't be certain quite when, she'd started rocking her hips, moving herself over his hardened length in brushing presses.

His slid one hand up from her breast to cup the back of her head and drew her close. He nibbled at her lips, lapping at the plump, delicate skin in something like reverence.

She inhaled deep, drawing the breath from him and he shuddered beneath her. As he kissed her, she lifted herself from him and trailed her hands down over him.

Circling him with her fingers, she position him carefully under her. The witch pulled back, holding his gaze as she lowered herself over him. There was a feeling so exquisite in watching the way his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth dropped open in a gasp as he entered her.

She braced her palms against his chest, her head dropping forward as she rocked over him. The sensations rippling through her at the way her movements kept him thrusting into her caused little tremors to wrack her muscles.

He moved beneath her, lifting himself against her motions as he trailed his hands along her skin again. Cupping her breasts once more before skimming downward, along her ribcage and her sides, across her hips to cup her arse with splayed fingers.

For several peaceful moments, there was nothing in the world for her but the sound of their rushed breaths and the feel of him beneath her as they moved against each other. Nothing but the sweet, heated tingling of him sinking into her and withdrawing, again and again.

She gave into it as she felt her body began to tense over him. Her limbs going taut, she pushed herself, choking out a moan as her orgasm started.

He threw his head back against the pillow, uttering a sound that was nearly a growl behind clenched teeth at the feel of her body gripping tighter around him. Holding her to him as she shivered and cried out, he rolled over, pinning her beneath him.

Pursing his lips, he held in a responding sound of his own as he drove into her hard and deep several times before stilling over her as he came.

Shivers wracked them both as they spent themselves. She gave into a few more shuddering movements, rocking herself beneath him as their orgasms ebbed. When she stilled, she found his eyes on her, still determined to be mystified by her, she thought.

While they caught their breath, neither of them moved. He shifted only enough to pull his arms from around her and balance his weight on his elbows, holding himself over her. The two searched each other's faces with their gazes.

After what seemed forever, he leaned down, his mouth capturing hers. He maneuvered his hips, withdrawing from her as he broke the kiss. Rolling onto his side, he pulled her against him.

Hermione didn't argue. There was still that strange sense of innocence about the moment. It might be gone when the sun rose, but for now, it simply was.

"I really do think I might be going mad," he whispered as he let his eyes drift shut.

 _Me, too_ , she thought, swallowing hard as she closed her eyes, as well. She could already tell by the sound of his breathing that he was falling asleep. She hoped, once again, that she was right to have allowed this night to happen.

Hoped she'd just done something that would make him _better_ , for the sake of her whole world.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

The next morning, Hermione didn't feel like she knew or understood anything. As she drifted awake, still warm in his arms—in _Voldemort's_ arms—she had no idea, whatsoever, how to think or how to feel about last night. No idea how to think or feel about her actions, his actions.

Tipping her head back, she searched his slumbering face with her gaze. She'd actually . . . dear God, she'd had sex with him. Oh, he might appear so different, now, but that didn't change who he was. And yet, it had been one of the most shockingly peaceful experiences of her life. She didn't have words for how confused and unsettled that notion, alone, left her.

She thought her movement might have stirred him from sleep, because suddenly those blue eyes were open and locked on hers. He seemed equally at a loss for how to react as he stared back at her.

Then again, she had told him in the morning he could decide how he wanted to continue, she could only imagine that he was tossing about his options in his head. Though, sure, to someone like her, _Monster versus Not-A-Monster_ didn't seem like a tough decision, but this was Dark Lord Voldemort. He'd been a monster for so long, she wasn't sure he would even know where to begin not being one.

She knew for certain he was scared of what it might mean for him if he tried to change his ways.

Swallowing hard, she ventured in a shaky voice, "It, um, it'll be time for breakfast, soon."

He watched her face for a few heartbeats before nodding. Relinquishing his hold on her, he waited for her to move, to drift away from him beneath the covers before he sat up.

Turning to peel back the blankets and plant his feet against the floor, he braced his elbows on his knees. He seemed lost in thought, just as he'd been last night as she'd eaten dinner.

Hermione could only observe him in silence as she dressed. She wasn't certain what he could be thinking, exactly, but once more she wasn't certain she wanted to know. Precisely like last night, too.

This time, however, she was too fearful of what the truth was to feel curious about what might be going through his head.

That silence continued as he stood and pulled on his robes. As he ushered her from the room and out the door, along the corridor toward the Great Hall. Only this time, this particular morning, already something was _different_. Typically, he blindly latched his hand around her wrist in an iron grip—inescapable and unforgiving. This morning, however, his hand had caught hers.

Odd to think she'd become so accustomed to his more brutal habits that she now started at this notably more delicate gesture, but she did. The frightened motion wasn't enough to draw his attention just then, mired still in his own thoughts as he was, and she dropped her gaze down the length of her arm as they moved along the corridor.

For a detached moment, she could only stare at his fingers curled around hers in a gentle hold.

He halted and she paused beside him, snapping her attention up. They were before the wide double-doors of the Great Hall. Any second now, he'd open them and they'd walk through—like every meal for the last near-two week, save for yesterday—and she knew she would not be the only one to notice the change in his behavior toward her.

* * *

"Oh, bloody fucking Christ, where are they?" Orias said in a rough, irritated whisper from his place at the table.

As they'd waited for their illustrious leader to enter so the meal could begin, he'd stared at those double-doors. He'd impatiently folded his arms over his chest and crossed his ankles beneath table in a movement that caused his heel to bang loudly against the floor.

Thorfinn, noticing the gesture, as he was stuck between the larger man and Antonin—as per fucking usual—folded his lips inward, refusing to comment. Antonin, however, was not quite so gracious, hence why Thorfinn should be annoyed at being seated between the two.

"Something bothering you this morning, Mulciber?"

The younger blond wizard snapped back in his seat, out of the way, as though Orias' glare might _actually_ send daggers flying in Antonin's direction.

"You know perfectly well why I'm edgy, Dolohov. Talk like you're not bothered _all_ you want, you know as well as I do that we're all worried about her."

"Sorry, but I prefer to keep my agitation with this entire mad scenario under wraps a little more tightly than you, given the Dark Lord's recent behavior." Antonin shook his head, keeping his expression blank. "He was ready to torture and murder anyone who gave her trouble before this. I dread to think what he'd do now to anyone who's actually _touched_ her."

Thorfinn's eyes shot wide at the notion. "Merlin's beard, he's going to have all our heads on a platter, isn't he?"

"Preserved with a stasis charm as a warning to future generations, no doubt."

Thorfinn arched a brow, turning his attention on Orias. "Future generations? How long you expect he'll be in power?"

His own eyes shooting wide, Orias looked about, ensuring no one was paying mind to their whispered discussion before responding. "Are you shitting me? The man came back from the dead after thirteen years, and now—now—he got his flesh back. For all we know, bloke probably made himself immortal by sheer happenstance of all that tinkering about he's been doing in ancient or forbidden magic."

"So he might be _accidentally_ immortal? Brilliant."

As though that would be the oddest thing that had ever happened in the Wizarding world. Sooner than the three of them could mull over the horrifying probability of that concept, the double-doors opened.

They watched the pair come across the center of the floor between the House tables. As usual when the Dark Lord entered, a hush fell across the room. The three watched them, as everyone else did, but Orias, Thorfinn, and Antonin moved as one to sit forward while they observed their leader and his 'prize Mudblood.'

Orias' arms slipped down to his sides, limp and lifeless as he noticed the change. Slight, as it was only one little thing that was different, but that one little thing was so obvious, it actually felt like he'd been punched in the gut.

"He's _holding_ her hand."

"Bloody hell, you were right—what you said last night? She's broken him."

Thorfinn shook his head at Antonin's words. "I've got a feeling that might actually be a very bad thing."

* * *

Hermione met their gazes in turn as she was led through the Great Hall. The shock in their faces as they watched her tore at her heart.

Sooner than the other Death Eaters could make any notice of where her attention was fixed, she looked away. But in the act of looking away, she caught a more curious sight, still.

Alecto was seated beside Narcissa, as usual, but seated beside Alecto was Draco, which wasn't usual, he was normally on his mother's other side. And now, Alecto and Draco—who barely seemed to even tolerate one another, from Hermione's past observations of their interactions—were involved in some very serious whispered discussion. Their voices were so low that Narcissa, seated so close to them, only looked on with an arched brow, clearly trying to make heads or tails of their conversation.

Her old, ever-present suspicion of Draco Malfoy from when they'd been students reared its head. Unable to stop herself from watching the hushed exchange, she wondered, _What are you up to, Malfoy?_

She remembered belatedly that Orias had mentioned to her getting Malfoy on their side. Feeling like things made sense, again, she exhaled weighted sigh. Best she not think on that too much. Now that she was fully aware of what this could mean, she knew she had to put it out of her head. If Draco was firmly involved with their plan, there was no telling when it could be put into motion. Best she be as unsuspecting as Voldemort to limit the risk of endangering the others after she was _gone_.

Though . . . what Alecto Carrow had to do with anything, she hadn't the foggiest.

Throughout breakfast, she braced for the first bite of whatever food she tasted, for her first sip of tea, for the pumpkin juice she'd gulped down when she'd nearly forgotten what she was bracing for, precisely, to start doing whatever Draco's concoction might bring about. She didn't know if she'd meet her feigned demise in a terrible fit of coughs. Perhaps it would be a horrible sensation in the pit of her stomach.

With any luck, she'd simply painlessly fall unconscious and then her heart rate would drop low enough that she could be mistaken for dead.

Yet, nothing happened. She finished her meal, Voldemort was as silent and lost in his own head as ever, the three still watched her when they dared to steal glances in her direction, and Alecto and Draco were still murmuring secretively to each other as Narcissa looked on.

Nothing had happened, at all. Yet, she was slowly becoming an anxious wreck, even as she reminded herself not to think on it any further for her own bloody good.

God, waiting for death could be nerve-wracking.

* * *

"Hermione."

The witch nearly jumped straight out of her skin at Orias' booming voice behind her. Spinning on her heel, she was pleasantly surprised—despite her misgivings and inner turmoil about how they'd take her news regarding what she'd done last night—to see all three of her wizards in the library entryway.

Though no one was about, she waited until they closed the doors firmly behind them before she set down the books she'd been organizing and crossed the floor to them. She didn't even care if they made faces at each other over the fact that she gave each of them a hug and a kiss.

"I can't believe he let you come in her alone." Thorfinn shook his head. "You've not been allowed out of his sight since—"

"I know. He's . . . he's permitting more freedom now." She looked about at all three of them. Hermione realized now that she'd never actually seen them together like this—well, of course, she had during meals and such, but she didn't think she'd ever seen the three of them alone with her at the same time.

She supposed this saved her a headache on having to give three separate explanations over the same judgment call.

Thorfinn glanced at the other two and frowned. "See? Broke him."

The other two appeared in too much shock over the notion that Voldemort was being a little less awful to her to speak.

"I, well, I suppose I have." The way he was pacing and arguing with himself last night. That he'd literally stated that he felt like he was going mad. "I wasn't thinking of it that way, but I believe I _did_."

"What did you do?"

As soon as that question left Antonin's lips, she knew something in her face had to have given away at least a little of what had gone on, because Orias' shoulders slumped.

"I don't want to hear this, do I?"

Hermione exhaled, her shoulders slumping as well. "No, I don't think you do, but I'd rather you know—all of you know. I don't want to have to keep anything from you."

Orias tipped back his head, uttering in a low, groaning bellow, " _Fuck!"_ Grabbing a chair, he hunkered down, folding his arms across his chest.

She waited, until there was a silencing charm on the doors, until they were all seated. Well, all three of them, she remained standing. She sort of had to, Hermione didn't feel as though she could sit calmly while explaining. And so she paced, wringing her hands and casting her gaze everywhere but at them as she went over the events, her reasoning, Voldemort's near meltdown right before her eyes.

Finishing, still unable to look at any of them, she let out a shaky breath. "I'll understand if you can't forgive for what I did, but I wouldn't take it back if I could. It's the only way that losing me won't mean agony for everyone else once I'm out of his life."

"She's right," Antonin said, knowing full well he was the one who'd told her to do whatever she felt she had to. If anyone was going to take the blame for this, it should be him. Hermione's reasoning made sense. Stranger, it was perfectly innocent.

Orias turned a baleful look on the dark-haired wizard. Thorfinn scooted his chair back from between the other two—an option he didn't typically have at meals—and then held up his hands. "Leave me out of this, I get it," he muttered with a shake of his head. They should be angry if what had happened last night had been something she hadn't consented to. She was a willing participant—he wasn't thrilled about that, but it was what it was—and she'd had a plan and sound reasons. No point getting all 'wah, spilt milk' over it.

But he didn't dare breathe a word of that just now. Mulciber was the only one of his fellows he feared actually capable of beating _him_ within an inch of his life, and the way he was looking right now, Thorfinn suspected that might really happen if Mulciber was pushed too much.

Antonin shrugged. "You think the saying 'better to have loved and lost' came out of nowhere? He believes he's _in love_ with her. If she 'dies' on him before he got to see that fulfilled, he'd backslide and what d'you think that would mean for those of us left behind to deal with the brunt of his anger, hmm?"

Running his hands down his face, Orias let out an unhappy sound that was nearly a growl.

Hermione knelt down before him. It was _him_. That moment here in the library with Orias that night he'd touched her wounds and realized she was still in there, after all. He'd started all this. Perhaps it was only natural that for whatever she had with Antonin and Thorfinn, the bond growing between her and Orias was something _deeper_.

Placing tentative fingers against his knees, she peered up into his face. "I won't say I'm sorry. I wish it could be something that's not hurtful or upsetting, but it is what it is. And if it means I have potentially protected you three from him spiraling out of control, I'd do it again. So, hate me if you want, I don't care." Okay, that was a lie, she did care, it broke her heart to consider Orias hating her, but she'd rather him hate her and be alive and well, then still care for her and be suffering through the wrath of a Voldemort who'd had his need to control everything around him renewed.

"Fuck," Orias said again, uttering a mirthless chuckle as he reached down. Scooping her into his arms, he set the witch on his lap. "I don't hate you, little twit. I'm not especially thrilled by the news, but it's not you I hate in this mess."

She offered him a sad smile, ridiculously happy when he closed his arms around her and planted a kiss on her lips.

" _Oy_ ," Thorfinn said just as Antonin frowned and called out, "That's enough, you two."

"Oh, both o' you shut it." Orias cleared his throat, refocusing on the more serious reason for their visit. "You're supposed to come to the headmaster's office for tea soon, I was asked to remind you. _Asked,_ can you fucking believe it? Not told, not demanded. Asked. Got so scared, I thought I might just leap out the bloody window."

"And it took three of you to come tell me this?"

"No," Thorfinn said, winking when she met his gaze. "We just missed you."

When the witch in his lap blushed and giggled in response to the other blond wizard's playful look, it was Orias' turn to bellow out " _Oy!"_

Antonin raised his hands, snickering. "Should've been born brothers."

* * *

Voldemort sighed, not having set aside his paperwork as the elves served their usual tea and biscuits that afternoon. If he found it odd that Hermione was eating more than usual during this time—she typically only nibbled at one biscuit as she sipped her tea—he didn't mention it.

She could feel the collective gazes of assembled Death Eaters around the room on them. But aside from her usual escorts, the other two were masked, and she didn't dare make a spectacle of herself by staring at them long enough to distinguish whose masks those were. Now that they didn't need to hide their identities, they tended to wear their masks at random, anyway.

Hermione frowned as she sat back, sipping her tea with a relaxed posture, ignoring that her nerves were fraying beneath the surface. She busied herself with wondering if they wore them because they wanted the exquisite detailing of the metalwork to be admired.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, aware of their collective scrutiny like it was a physical weight pressing on her. That was when she realized what they could possibly be watching her so intently for.

Sooner than that panic could add to her frayed nerves, the first cough came . . . .

* * *

 _Twenty Minutes Earlier_

"They'll never let us close enough," Draco said as he handed Alecto the vial. "The elves guard the food they prepare like it's their bloody firstborn."

"Hence why I told you to leave this part to me, you sniveling twerp."

"Oh, sure, fine way to speak to the person you've been playing assistant to."

Alecto rolled her eyes. "Just distract them. I have my ways. Trust me."

As he was about to ask, she uncorked the vial. With the tip of her wand, she coaxed a few drops from the container. The tiny, glittering beads hovered in the air.

Training her wand steadily, she said, "No, you go in there. I don't care what you say or do, just get them to take their attention away from that tray for a few seconds."

Draco nodded. He was good at making a fuss. "I can do that."

Alecto tucked herself just out of view of the entryway as he burst through the doors. The elves all stopped what they were doing to look at the wizard. She held in a laugh. He was good at getting attention—he'd not even said anything and they were all distracted.

With a series of flicks, she sneaked the droplets across the kitchen as Malfoy went on about something to do with dinner. A special order for the Dark Lord, was it? Didn't matter.

Far as Alecto could tell, as she lowered the poison toward the cup, so that the sound it made when it splashed down against the porcelain would be minimal, tonight's plans were bound to change, anyway.

* * *

Hermione looked up from her cup. The confused sounds of the assembled Death Eaters seemed like white noise, humming in her ears.

Voldemort was clutching at his throat, trying to get a breath in between coughs.

Swallowing hard, she set aside her tea and rose from her seat. "My Lord?" she asked in a low, shivering voice as she stood.

Those blue eyes locked on hers as he collapsed sideways out of his chair.

She didn't even look about, she could feel that they were all at her shoulders as she and the Death Eaters scrambled around the table. It had all happened so fast . . . .

"I don't understand," she said in a whisper.

Thorfinn looked about, shrugging. If no one else was going to say it, "Oops? But also . . . why wasn't _this_ the plan in the first place?"

"You put it in the wrong cup?"

Hermione looked over her shoulder at the masked Death Eaters. She should've known.

Alecto plucked off her mask. "No, Little Malfoy. I put it in precisely the cup _I_ wanted to."

The younger witch thought she might get dirty looks for asking, but she had to, "Is he dead?"

"Nope. Malfoy and I made a poison that would do exactly what you wanted—induce a near-death state that'll have him out for nearly two days." She shrugged, arching a brow as a wicked grin curved her lips. "If he died, he wouldn't be able to rot for the rest of his days in confinement."

Hermione, unsure at all what to feel at this turn of events, looked at her three wizards in turn. They all appeared equally shocked.

Alecto sighed, setting aside her mask. "C'mon, Little Malfoy, we've got some people to contact. Make sure they know who's responsible for ending this madness. Everyone in this room, yeah? We should ask for probation in exchange for 'our efforts,' I think. Sound good?" Alecto didn't want for response as she turned toward the door.

The other witch shook her head, still confused. "But things will go back to the way they were before. You're a Death Eater, don't you want—?"

"Oh, my dear." Alecto chuckled in an oddly affectionate way at Hermione's unfinished question. "He killed my brother. Don't underestimate how much more it will mean to me than _anything_ else in the world that he'll be suffering while I'm living free . . . well, mostly free, anyway."

Draco just looked about, confused as everyone else . . . with the exception that he paused long enough to snatch up the Elder Wand. "Way I heard it, this was mine, anyway," he said, hearing only after Potter had passed that the Hallow had 'reverted' to his ownership for disarming Dumbledore that night that now felt so very long ago.

In everything that had come after the War, Voldemort had forgotten to actively disarm him to regain full control of the wand—he'd never actually needed to.

No one moved to stop him as he followed Alecto from the room, Elder Wand in hand. Oddly, Hermione thought that with everything he'd witness during and after the War, perhaps Malfoy _would_ be a fit owner for the weapon, now.

The four, left alone with Voldemort in that death-like sleep, turned to look at him, again.

"We should bind him before he wakes up. _Shouldn't_ be for two days, but we can't risk it, not with so much magic in him," Antonin said.

Orias, however, was already drawing his wand to cast a binding spell on the Dark Lord's extremities.

Thorfinn exchanged a look with Hermione as he said, "Again, _why_ wasn't this the plan in the first place?"

Letting out a laugh that was equal parts surprise and relief, she stepped over to Thorfinn, hugging him tight.

Even the sound of two voices bellowing, _"Oy!"_ sounding through the room just then made her laugh. It was over. The plan had gone wrong—or right, according to Alecto—and had actually turned out better for the mishap.

Things might . . . she didn't dare to hope it, just yet, as there was bound to be a fight when the Ministry turned over and tried to come for the still-loyal Death Eaters in the castle . . . . Things might get to go back to some semblance of normal.

She didn't dare to hope it until it happened, but she might have her life back.


	17. Chapter 17

**And here we are! Thank you so much everyone for coming on this little journey with me (seeing how my stories will end is typically as much of an adventure for me as it is for you lot 😉 ). And thank you, also, for not hating me too much that I made some of you feel bad for Voldemort.**

* * *

 **Chapter Seventeen**

It was several weeks before anything seemed back in 'some semblance of order.' Everyone involved in the so-called plot to unseat Voldemort eventually saw that not only was Alecto's plan better, as it benefited all of them, but that Thorfinn was correct, and it should've been the plan in the first place. To be fair, though, at the time their plan had started, Hermione knew no one thought the Dark Lord could be caught off-guard or lulled into a false sense of security.

Those weeks were . . . odd to say the least. The ripple through the Ministry now that no one was under the Dark Lord's thumb was immediate, and Kingsley Shacklebolt wasted little time claiming the post of Minister—though the position was still _technically_ unofficial—and his first act was to see those imprisoned on Voldemort's whims or due to his bogus laws released. The still-loyal Death Eaters had been carted off to a refurbished, newly-warded and Dementor-free Azkaban. Voldemort had a heavily warded solitary confinement wing _all_ to himself, which was little surprise to anyone, even though he didn't put up a struggle when the Aurors took him into custody. Though, that last bit had been a surprise to everyone; they'd expected as soon as he realized what must've happened, he'd return to his old, vengeful ways. Instead he'd fallen silent, merely nodding or shaking his head in response to things and gazing about as though everything his attention landed upon saddened him.

Hermione knew she'd make it her personal mission to keep him from backsliding, even if her wizards weren't especially happy about it.

As for her wizards, they, along with Alecto, Draco, Narcissa, and Lucius—apparently Narcissa, Draco, and Alecto claimed he was in on the plot, as well, Hermione had no idea what that was about, aside from loyalty to family, but then, just like with the poisoning, what the hell Alecto had to do with anything she hadn't the foggiest—had been offered the opportunity to serve out their probation as staff at Hogwarts, provided they followed a curriculum approved by _both_ the new Minister, and new Headmistress Minerva McGonagall.

Irma Pince saw her release from Azkaban as a perfect time to formally retire from her post, affording Minerva the chance to let Hermione stay on . . . if she wished. One of her fist duties as the New-Ministry-approved librarian was to reorganize the books _properly_. Oddly, when she removed the books about Voldemort's life from the shelf, she didn't have the heart to discard them. She didn't care if she was judged for it later, she sneaked the books away, hiding them from everyone.

Even if she never looked at them, she felt it was important for someone to have them. Remembering what and who he'd been before this made how much he'd changed more _real_ , somehow.

Her wizards, now able to more actively vie for her attention—when students weren't present, of course—made right nuisances of themselves day after day, and she simply couldn't get enough of this more carefree side to all of them. However, she did think she could do without Thorfinn's occasional need to scoop her up, toss her over his shoulder like a caveman, and run from the room.

Thorfinn became, strangely, what Hermione could think of as her best friend. A best friend who chose completely random moments to snog her senseless. Antonin made clear his intention to maintain a friends-with-benefits status with the witch, no actual commitment there beyond friendship. And Orias, well, just as she'd realized herself, seemed to feel that no matter what else happened with Rowle or Dolohov, he'd still be there beside her. He didn't dare to bring up the _L_ word, but that was okay, because neither did she.

Her world settled into an entirely new version of normal—finally, she felt like everything happening around her was something she could understand.

Until the moment she was preparing to leave the castle one Saturday afternoon on that self-appointed mission. She exited the librarian's quarters to find Draco Malfoy in the empty library with his head down against his folded arms.

Though they still weren't quite friends, they were certainly closer and more amicable with one another than they'd ever been during all the years they'd known each other.

Frowning, she made her way over to the table on quiet footfalls. "Malfoy? You okay?"

With a noisy sigh, he lifted his head. "I'm . . . I'm weird, actually."

She couldn't help snickering. "And this is the first time you're realizing that, I take it?"

He shot her a withering glare.

Folding her lips inward, she held up her hands. "Sorry, you just made it sort of easy there. I guess you came in here for some quiet? But you know, I've got a few minutes if you want to talk about whatever it is."

Draco scowled, but not his usual Malfoy-scowl, the one where he could either be angry or snarky. This was a thoughtful expression. "I suppose. Can you keep a secret?"

Her brows drawing upward, she pulled out the chair opposite him and took a seat. "You should know better than to ask that of _me._ "

Meeting her gaze steadily for a silent few seconds, he nodded. "Okay, fair. Um, I don't know how to say this other than to come right out with it."

The witch clasped her hands upon the tabletop, the picture of complete patience and calm as she waited.

"My . . . my mother has a girlfriend." Realizing belatedly that women sometimes referred to their female friends that way, he tacked on, "Romantically speaking, I mean."

Hermione darted her gaze about as she asked, "Did your parents divorce?"

"Oh, no, see that's the weird part. They're still together. Father knows—they told him once things settled down around here—and he's _okay_ with it."

"I'm . . . I'm very confused."

Draco threw up his hands. "Me, too. I mean, I found out about it before he did, and I wasn't happy about it, but, you know, I accepted it because my mother was happy. But I figured when the truth came out, they'd be all sorts of terrible repercussions."

Nodding, she offered, "And your upset that your parents' marriage didn't implode?"

He rolled his eyes. "When you say it like that—"

"No, no." Hermione waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. "What I _mean_ is it's what someone would naturally expect from that sort of situation. Therefore, it's _natural_ for you to be a bit out of sorts that things turned out differently. Did your father explain?"

"Yeah, that's the scary part." Draco shrugged. "Everything that happened in the aftermath of the War . . . it made him realize he could just as easily have lost her. She was here, suffering and miserable, and he wasn't able to be present for her. Said he came to realize how important she is to him, and if having a relationship with Alecto is what'll make her happy, then he's willing to let her have that."

" _Alecto_ is your mum's girlfriend?" Hermione's eyes shot wide as she asked, but after a moment, her features settled and she nodded. "Actually, I can see it. They are gorgeous together."

Draco's eyes narrowed a bit. "I cannot believe you just said that."

Laughing, Hermione shook her head. "Listen, how you feel right now is completely understandable. It's a weird situation. I mean, who could expect your father to be so understanding?"

He tossed his hands in the air all over again. "Exactly!"

"Bottom line, Malfoy. Is your mum happy?"

"Yeah."

"Is your dad really okay with it?"

"Strangely, yes."

"And you're okay with your mum's situation because she's happy?"

"We're talking in circles, now, Granger. Yes."

She shrugged, smirking. "Then you have to find a way to be okay with your father not being a tyrant about it."

"Okay, when you say it like _that_ , it sounds ridiculous."

Propping her elbow on the table and resting her chin against her palm, she waited for him to meet her gaze before she asked, "Feel better?"

"Actually, I do."

Nodding, Hermione stood. "Good. I've got some place to—"

The sound of the library doors busting open just then cut her off. Wincing, she turned to look. "Oh, Thorfinn, not now. It's really—"

"Pfft," Thorfinn breathed the noise in response as he dashed into the library, lifted her off her feet and deposited her over his shoulder. "Oh, hey, Malfoy."

Draco only arched a brow, watching as the Viking of a wizard turned and started out of the library as though there wasn't a complaining witch draped over him.

"Oh, just _fine_ ," she shouted at the small of Thorfinn's back while he took off down the corridor with her. "At _least_ run toward the front doors! I've got someplace to be, you know!"

* * *

"Are they treating you well?"

He sighed, rolling his eyes as he turned away from the barely-existent window in his cell. "You ask me that every week."

"And every week I'm just as concerned about your answer as the last."

Crossing the floor of his cell, he came as close as the bars permitted, gazing down at her. "And just as last week, they're treating me fine. Better than expected . . . ." He squared his jaw as he looked off for a moment while he spoke. "Better than I know I deserve."

"The important thing is you know it. Before all this, it wouldn't have faze you at all."

He nodded. "I know." Swallowing hard, he reached out, his movement tentative. He always did that, moved as though he expected her to pull away. He rested his fingers over hers where they were curled around the bar. The first time he'd done that, the Auror watching him had come over ready to push him back from her. Eventually, and at her insistence, that devolved into a clearing of his throat. Now, the Auror was silent, but she imagined he was arching a brow at the contact.

"Every week they come in, make me take Veritaserum, and ask me the same questions, over and over." Those blue eyes drifted closed. "The monotony of it is mind-numbing."

"You can't really blame them, though." She brushed the pad of her thumb across his knuckles in a gesture of comfort—it was as much as she could do for him, after all. "They want to make sure you're not going back to your old ways."

"I know. That's the worst part. I brought this on myself. All these emotions . . . ." He sighed again, pressing his forehead against the bars. "I forgot what they felt like. _God_ , it hurts."

A sad, gentle smile curved her lips. "It's redemption. Tends not to tickle."

He breathed out a snicker at that. "I suppose not. You know what's worse?"

She placed her other hand over his. "What?"

"This all brought with it a self-awareness I didn't have before." He uttered a chuckle full of derision at himself. "As much as everything hurts, I know it's still better than I deserve."

"That's sort of the point." She shrugged. "If you're left to stew when you don't feel sorry about what you've done, there's no purpose to it. You feel because you're not _him_ , anymore. You hurt because you've evolved. Voldemort will always be who you were, but it doesn't have to be who you remain."

He opened his eyes, the blue depths swimming a little as he asked, "And who would that person be?"

"Oh, I don't know." She smiled again, a brighter expression than before. "But _Tom_ doesn't sound so bad. Maybe you can pick your own new last name? Something that doesn't have hurtful memories attached to it."

He bit his lip, holding back grin. "I could be a Tom, again, I think."

"Tom," she echoed, her gaze searching his face.

The Auror interrupted just then, with that gruff, irritating throat-clearing of his.

As if she didn't know what he was about to say, she glanced at him over her shoulder.

The wizard stationed by the wing's lone door frowned, making a show of tightening his grip on his wand. "Miss Granger, time's up."

"I understand." She returned her attention to . . . _Tom._ She would make herself get used to calling him that quickly. "I've got to go, now."

Those blue eyes held hers as he asked, "Will you come see me next week?"

She smiled, but again it was a sad expression. There was a chance she was the only thing keeping him tied to his new desire to change. "Of course I will. You ask me that every week."

Even as that ruddy Auror looked on, Tom raised his free hand, reaching a finger through the bars to trace over her lips. "And every week I'm just as concerned about your answer as the last."

"And just as last week, and this week, I'll be here precisely when visiting time begins, and will stay until they force me to leave. Every week, for as long as you're here."

He nodded, forcing a gulp down his throat. "See you then, Hermione."

The witch returned his nod, dropping her head for a quick moment to brush a kiss against his knuckles before she pulled her hand from beneath his. "See you then, Tom."

She could feel his attention on her as she was led from the wing. Just as she disappeared through the doorway, she glanced back, meeting his gaze. It was always that one last look. Odd how it was that she was so certain that single moment meant as much to him as whatever they discussed during her visits—meant as much to him as the fact that she visited him, at all.

"I don't think I'll ever understand it," the Auror said in a hushed tone as he guided her along the corridor back toward the exit.

Hermione laughed softly and shrugged. "And I don't think there's any way I could explain it that would make sense, so I suppose we're even."

They lapsed into silence as they moved through the prison. Hermione always had a bit of a rough time walking away. Not because she fancied the idea of staying in Azkaban, or because she though he shouldn't be here—after everything, even changed, there needed to be _some_ recompense for his crimes—but because it always left her time to think. To mull over how sad he looked. To remember that one night they'd had together.

And to again wonder why no one'd thought to simply slip something into his tea sooner? But then, they'd just have a revenge-bent madman behind bars, now, not someone willing to become better.

No matter how she thought on it, there was really no other way for this to have gone that would have produced this result.

She'd never get over the simple, startling fact that Alecto Carrow had been responsible for freeing Wizarding Britain from Voldemort's grasp. And she'd done so for completely selfish reasons that had _nothing_ to do with taking that power for herself.

Hermione still didn't know precisely what had happened to Amycus Carrow and Theodore Nott, Sr. No one would tell her precisely what had been done to them. And, unlike what she might've once done—pestering everyone in the world until she had an answer—she accepted that perhaps she was happier _not_ knowing.

* * *

As she stepped off the ferry from the prison and started walking, her head full of useless thoughts, she heard someone calling her. Frowning, she halted and turned in the direction of the voices.

A smile spread across her face immediately. "What are you doing here?"

Orias grinned. "We came to see you back to Hogwarts, Little Witch."

"Says you." Antonin arched a brow. "I tagged along so we could go to a pub. Haven't had a drink in ages, and we were only permitted out of the castle because we said we were coming her to escort you back."

Thorfinn looked at the two of them and laughed. "Says _both_ of you. I'm only here because I wanted do to _this_ in public."

Next thing Hermione knew, she was draped over Thorfinn's shoulder as he sprinted away from the other two.

"Oy," Antonin shouted, his hands cupped around his mouth. "You'd better be heading for a pub."

"New plan," Orias said as they started after the pair. "When we catch them, you hold him down, I'll beat him within an inch of his life."

Antonin turned his head to catch the other man's gaze. "And then we find a pub?"

Orias shrugged, nodding. "And then we find a pub."

 **THE END**


End file.
